THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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^/;77. 


^  Coffection  of 

^ttttxB  of  ^^acfierag 


@:  CoiUction  of 

ZdkvB  of  ^Pacftera^ 


1 847-1 85  J 


NEW    YORK 

CBarfee   ^criBner'e   ^one 

1888 


Copyright,  i88y,  1888,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


( 


^  u 


PUBLISHERS'   NOTE. 


^*^  In  arranging  the  letters  for  publication, 
a  simple  chronological  order  has  been  followed, 
regardless  of  their  relative  importance.  In  some 
cases  the  originals  were  not  dated  ;  and  in  each  of 
these  instances  an  effort  has  been  made  to  supply 
the  omission.  Often  it  has  been  possible  to  do 
this  with  certainty ;  and  in  that  case  the  date  is 
printed  above  the  letter  in  Homan  type.  "Where 
such  certainty  could  not  be  reached,  conjectural 
dates  are  given  in  italics  and  enclosed  in  brack- 
ets ;  but  even  then  they  have  been  so  far  verified 
by  means  of  incidents  referred  to  in  the  letters, 
or  other  evidence,  that  they  may  be  depended 
upon  as  fixing  very  closely  the  time  of  the  notes 
to  which  they  are  attached.  In  this  final  ar- 
rangement of  the  letters,  and  in  some  additional 
annotation,  the  publishers  have  enjoyed  the  privi- 
lege of  advice  and  assistance  from  Mr.  James 
Russell  Lowell,  who  kindly  consented,  with  the 
cordial  approval  and  thanks  of  Mrs.  Brookfield, 
to  give  them  this  aid. 


vi  ^ufifis^ere'  (Uofe. 

The  publishers  are  permitted  to  make  public 
the  following  letter  from  Mrs.  Ritchie  to  Mrs. 
Erookfield : 

3Ga  RosAKT  Gardens,  Hkreford  Square,  S.  W. 
AprU  28. 
My  Dear  Mes.  BROOKFiEiiD  : 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  made  a  satis- 
factory aiTangement  for  jjublishing  your  selections  from 
my  Father's  letters.  I  am  of  course  unable  myself  by 
his  expressed  wish  to  do  anything  of  the  sort.  While  I 
am  glad  to  be  spared  the  doubts  and  difficulties  of  such  a 
work,  I  have  often  felt  sorry  to  think  that  no  one  should 
ever  know  more  of  him.  You  know  better  than  anyone 
what  we  should  like  said  or  unsaid,  and  what  he  would 
have  wished ;  so  that  I  am  very  glad  to  think  you  have 
undertaken  the  work,  and  am  always  your  affectionate 

Anne  Eitchie. 


Los  Angeles,  . ;., 

INTRODUCTION. 


]^o  writer  of  recent  times  is  so  mncli  quoted  as 
Tliackeray  ;  scarcely  a  week  passes  without  his 
name  recurriiig  in  one  or  other  of  the  leading 
articles  of  the  day  ;  and  yet  whilst  his  published 
works  retain  their  influence  so  firmly,  the  per- 
sonal impression  of  his  life  and  conversation  be- 
comes more  and  more  shadowy  and  indistinct  as 
the  friends  who  knew  and  loved  him  the  most 
are  gradually  becoming  fewer  and  passing  away. 

Thackeray's  nature  was  essentially  modest  and 
retiring.  More  than  once  it  appears  that  he  had 
desired  his  daughter  to  publish  no  memoir  of  him. 
Mrs.  Ritchie,  who  alone  could  do  justice  to  her 
Father's  memory,  and  who  has  inherited  the  true 
woman's  share  of  his  genius,  and  of  the  tender 
and  perceptive  sympathy  of  his  character,  has 
ever  held  this  injunction  sacred,  even  to  the  ex- 
tent of  withholding  all  his  letters  to  his  family 
from  publication.  Yet  it  happens  from  time  to 
time  that  some  chance  letters  of  doubtful  authen- 


via  3nfrobuction. 

ticity,  and  others  utterly  spurious,  have  appeared 
in  print,  and  liave  even  perhaps  found  accept- 
ance amongst  those  who,  knowing  him  only  by 
his  published  works,  were  without  the  true  key 
for  distinguishing  what  was  genuine  from  what 
was  simply  counterfeit. 

The  letters  which  form  this  collection  were 
most  of  them  written  by  Mr.  Thackeray  to  my 
husband,  the  late  Rev'd  "W.  H.  Brookfield,  and 
myself,  from  about  1847,  and  continuing  during 
many  years  of  intimate  friendship,  beginning 
from  the  time  when  he  first  lived  in  London,  and 
when  he  especially  needed  our  sympathy.  His 
happy  married  life  had  been  broken  up  by  the 
malady  which  fell  upon  liis  young  wife  after  the 
birth  of  her  youngest  child  ;  his  two  remaining 
little  girls  were  under  his  mother's  care,  at  Paris. 
Mr.  Thackeray  was  living  alone  in  London. 
"  Vanity  Fair  "  was  not  yet  written  when  these 
letters  begin.  His  fame  was  not  yet  established 
in  the  world  at  large  ;  but  amongst  his  close  per- 
sonal friends,  an  undoubting  belief  in  his  genius 
had  already  become  strongly  rooted.  Xo  one 
earlier  than  my  dear  gifted  husband  adopted  and 
j)ioclaimed  this  new  faith.  The  letters  now  so 
informally  collected  together  are  not  a  consecu- 


3nfro^ucfion.  ix 

tlve  series ;  but  tliej  have  always  been  carefully 
preserved  with  sincere  affection  by  those  to  whom 
they  were  written.  Some  of  them  are  here  given 
without  the  omission  of  a  word  ;  others  are  ex- 
tracts from  communications  of  a  more  private 
character ;  but  if  every  one  of  these  letters  from 
Thackeray  could  be  rightly  made  public,  without 
the  slightest  restriction,  they  would  all  the  more 
redound  to  his  lionour. 

Jane  Octavia  Bkookfield. 
29  Carlyle  Square,  Chelsea. 


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W/M  Oi     i   VmJ 


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f»    I  ilun*t4  i^^M^  UfcJ  Wi^  OuHet   W  'Wt  ^^Cno^ 
4^u^  Iwtil  IL  kU*i  Vi*  H  (\/iuJluj^  Ji  <i^u^  [una* 


I  ticru  i^U^  hiAini,  mU  m  UiMra^rJiL  i</  ZiM^  CulitwU 
m^i^    h4At^Ui4  ^uU^JUh  i£kfi  %t.  A^  Uii^  )  (u  & 

cXi  I  Ao*  <a  lla  Ckc\  ^  tvzJtiita  mi  (hu^  u^t*  luiU- 


LETTERS 


A   COLLECTION   OF 

LETTERS  OF  THACKERAY 


[Jan.   1847] 
[TO  MR.  BROOKFIELD] 

My  Dear  IV.  : 

There  will  bo  no  dinner  at  Greenwich  on  Monday. 
Dickens  has  chosen  that  day  for  a  reconciliation  ban- 
quet between  Forster  and  me. 

Is  maJame  gone  and  is  she  better?  My  heart 
follows  her  respectfully  to  Devonshii-e  and  the  dis- 
mal scenes  of  my  youth. 

I  am  being  brought  to  bed  of  my  seventh  darling 
with  inexpressible  throes  :  and  dine  out  every  day 
until  Juice  knows  when. 

I  will  come  to  you  on  Sunday  night  if  yovi  like 
— though  stop,  why  shouldn't  you,  after  church, 
come  and  sleep  out  here  in  the  country  ? 

Youi-s, 

Jos.    OSBOKN. 


4  feettere  of  ^^fterag. 

[August,  1847] 
[TO   MR.   BROOKFIELD] 

LE   DiMAXCnE. 

Monsieur  I'Ahbe: 

Do  retour  de  Gravesend  j'ai  trouve  cbez  moi  un 
billet  de  M.  Crowe,  qui  m'invite  u  diner  deniaiu  a, 
G  heures  precises  a  Ampstead. 

En  meme  temps  M.  Crowe  m'a  envoye  una  lettre 
pour  vous, — ne  vous  trouvant  pas  a  votre  ancien 
logement  (oil  I'adresse  de  I'horrible  bouge  ou  vous 
demeurez  actuellement  est  lieureusement  ignores) — 
force  fut  a  i\L  Crow^e  de  s'adresser  a  moi — a  moi  qui 
connais  I'ignoble  caveau  que  vous  occupez  indigne- 
ment,  sous  les  dalles  liumidcs  d'uue  eglise  deserte, 
dans  le  voisinage  fetide  de  fourmillants  Irlandais. 

Cette  lettre,  Monsieur,  dont  je  j^arle — cette  lettre 
— je  I'ai  laissee  a  la  maison.  Demain  il  sera  trop 
tard  de  vous  faire  part  de  I'aimable  invitation  de 
notre  ami  commun. 

Je  remplis  enfin  mon  devoir  envers  M.  Crowe  en 
vous  faisant  savoir  ses  intentions  hospitalieres  a 
votre  c'gard.  Et  je  vous  quitte,  jNIonsieur,  en  vous 
donnant  les  assurances  reiterc-es  de  ma  haute  con- 
sideration. 

ChEVALIEU    de    TiTMARSn. 

J'offre  a  Madame  I'Abbesso  mes  Lommages  re- 
spectueux. 


betters  of  ^^ocficra)?.  5 

1847. 
[TO   AIR.  BROOKFIELD] 

My  Dear  old  B.  : 

Can  you  come  and  dine  on  Thursday  at  six  ?  I 
shall  be  at  home — no  party — nothing — only  me. 
And  about  your  night-cap,  why  not  come  out  for 
a  day  or  two,  though  the  rooms  are  very  comfort- 
able in  the  Church  vaults.'     Farewell. 

Ever  your 


(And  Madam,  is  she  well  ?) 


Louisa. 


[1847] 

[  ENCLOSING   THE   FOLLOWING   NOTE  ] 

Temple,  8  Nov. 

My  Dear  Thackeray : 

A  thousand  thanks.  It  will  do  admirably,  and  I 
will  not  tax  you  again  in  the  same  manner.     Don't 

'  In  this  Letter,  and  elsewhere,  reference  is  made  to  my  husband's  living 
in  the  "church  vaults."  Our  income  at  this  time  was  very  small,  and  a 
long  illness  had  involved  us  in  some  difficulty.  Mr.  Brookfleld's  aversion  to 
del)t  and  his  firm  rectitude  of  principle  decided  him  to  give  up  our  lodgings, 
and  to  remove  by  himself  into  the  vestry  of  his  District  Church,  which  was 
situated  in  a  very  squalid  neighborhood.  Here  he  could  live  rent  free,  and 
in  the  midst  of  his  parish  work,  whilst  he  sent  me  to  stay  with  my  dear 
father,  the  late  Sir  Charles  Elton,  at  Clevedon  Court,  for  the  recovery  of 
my  health.  At  this  juncture  our  circumstances  gradually  brightened.  Mr. 
Thackeray,  my  uncle,  Mr.  Hallam,  and  other  friends  interested  themselves 
towards  obtaining  better  preferment  for  Mr.  Brookfield,  whose  great  ability 
and  high  character  were  brought  to  the  notice  of  Lord  Lansdowne,  then 
President  of  the  Council,  and  head  of  the  Education  Department.  He  ap- 
pointed Mr.  Brookfield  to  be  one  of  H.  M.  Inspectors  of  Schools,  an  em- 
ployment which  was  very  congenial  tc  him.  Onr  difficulties  were  then  re- 
moved, and  WG  were  able  to  establish  ourselves  in  a  comfortable  house  in 
I'ortman  Street,  to  which  so  many  of  these  letters:  arc  addressed. 


6  fecffere  of  ^^ocSerap. 

get  nervous  or  think  about  criticism,  or  trouble  youi'i 
self  about  the  oj^inions  of  friends ;  you  have  com- 
pletely beaten  Dickens  out  of  the  inner  circle  already. 
I  dine  at  Gore  House  to-day  ;  look  in  if  you  can. 

Ever  yours, 

A.  H. 

Madam  : 

Although  I  am  certainly  committing  a  breach  of 
confidence,  I  venture  to  offer  my  friend  up  to  you, 
because  you  have  considerable  humour,  and  I  think 
will  possibly  laugh  at  him.  You  know  you  yourself 
often  hand  over  some  folks  to  some  other  folks,  and 
deserve  to  be  treated  as  you  treat  others. 

Tlie  circumstances  arose  of  a  letter  which  H 

sent  me,  containing  prodigious  compliments.  I  an- 
swered that  these  praises  from  all  quarters  fi*ight- 
ened  me  rather  than  elated  me,  and  sent  him  a  draw- 
ing for  a  lady's  album,  with  a  caution  not  to  ask  for 
any  more,  hence  the  reply.  Ah !  Madame,  how  much 
richer  truth  is  than  fiction,  and  how  great  that  phrase 
about  the  "inner  circle  "  is. 

I  write  from  the  place  from  which  I  heard  your 
little  voice  last  night,  I  mean  this  morning,  at  who 
knows  how  much  o'clock.  I  wonder  whether  you 
will  laugh  as  much  as  I  do ;  my  papa  in  the  next 
room  must  think  me  insane,  but  I  am  not,  and  am 
of  jMadame,  the  Serviteur  and  Frtre  affectionne. 

W.  U.  T. 


£efter0  of  Z^c^^ta^^  7 

[ 1847  ] 
[TO  MR.  BROOKFIELD 

My  dear  IV.  H.  B.  : 

I  daresay  3-011  are  disgusted  at  my  not  comiug  to 
the  bouge,  ou  Sunday  night,  but  tlicre  "vvas  a  good 
reason,  wliicli  may  be  explained  if  required  here- 
after. And  I  had  made  up  my  account  for  some 
days  at  Southampton,  hoping  to  start  this  day,  but 
there  is  another  good  reason  for  staying  at  home. 
Poor  old  grandmother's  will,  burial  &c.,  detained 
me  in  town.     Did  you  see  her  death  in  the  paper? 

Why  I  write  now,  is  to  beg,  and  implore,  and  in- 
treat  that  you  and  Mrs.  Brookfield  will  come  and 
take  these  three  nice  little  rooms  here,  and  stop 
with  me  until  you  have  found  other  lodgment.  It 
will  be  the  very  greatest  comfort  and  kindness  to 
me,  and  I  shall  take  it  quite  hangry  if  you  don't 
come.  Will  you  come  on  Saturday  now?  the  good 
things  you  shall  have  for  dinner  are  quite  incredi- 
ble. I  have  got  a  box  of  preserved  apricots  from 
Fortnum  and  Mason's  which  alone  ought  to  make 
any  lady  happy,  and  two  shall  be  put  under  my 
lady's  pillow  every  night.  Now  do  come — and  fare- 
well. My  barb  is  at  the  postern.  I  have  had  him 
clipped  and  his  effect  in  the  Park  is  quite  tre- 
menjus. 


8  fecttere  of  ^^ftera^ 

Brussels,  Friday  [28  July],  1848. 

I  have  just  had  a  dreadful  omeu.  Somebody 
gave  me  a  paper-knife  Avith  a  mother  of  pearl  Llade 
and  a  beautiful  Silver  handle.  Annie  recognised  it 
in  a  minute,  lying  upon  my  dressing  table,  with  a 
"Here's  Mrs.  So  and  So's  butter  knife."  I  suppose 
she  cannot  have  seen  it  above  twice,  but  that  child 
remembers  everything.  Well,  this  morning,  being 
fairly  on  my  travels,  and  having  the  butter  knife  in 
my  desk,  I  thought  I  would  begin  to  cut  open  a 
book  I  had  bought,  never  having  as  yet  had  occasion 
to  use  it.  The  moment  I  tried,  the  blade  broke 
away  from  the  beautiful  handle.     What  does  this 

portend  ? There  is  a  blade 

and  there  is  a  hilt,  but  they  refuse  to  act  together. 
Something  is  going  to  happen  I  am  sure. 

I  took  leave  of  my  family  on  Sunday,  after  a  day 
in  the  rain  at  Hampton  Court.  .  .  .  Forster'  was 
dining  with  Mr.  Chapman  the  publisher,  where  we 
passed  the  day.  His  article  in  the  Examiner  did 
not  please  me  so  much  as  his  genuine  good  nature 
in  insisting  upon  walking  with  Annie  at  night,  and 
holding  an  umbrella  over  her  through  the  pouring 
rain.  Did  you  read  the  Sjjedalor's  sarcastic  notice  f 
of  V.  F.  ?     I  don't  think  it  is  just,  but  think  Rintoul 

>  John  ForsU-r,  the  intimate  friend  of  Charles  Dickens,  and  well  known 
writer. 


Eeffere  of  ^^ocfterag.  9 

is  a  very  honest  man  and  rather  incHned  to  deal 
severely  with  his  private  friends,  lest  he  should  fall 
into  the  other  extreme  ;  to  be  sure  he  keeps  out  of 
it,  I  mean  the  other  extreme,  very  -well. 

I  passed  Monday  night  and  part  of  Tuesday  in  the 
artless  society  of  some  officers  of  the  21st,  or  Pioyai 
Scots  Fusiliers,  in  garrison  at  Canterbury.  "We  went 
to  a  barrack  room,  where  we  drank  about,  out  of  a 
Silver  cup  and  a  glass.  I  heard  such  stale  old  gar- 
I'ison  stories.  I  recognised  among  the  stories  many 
old  friends  of  my  youth,  very  pleasant  to  meet  when 
one  was  eighteen,  but  of  whom  one  is  rather  shy 
now.  Not  so  these  officers,  however  ;  they  tell  each 
other  the  stalest  and  wickedest  old  Joe  Millers  ;  the 
jolly  grey-headed  old  majors  have  no  reverence  for 
the  beardless  ensigns,  nor  vice-versa.  I  heard  of  the 
father  and  son  in  the  other  regiment  in  garrison  at 
Canterbury,  the  Slashers  if  you  please,  being  car- 
ried up  drunk  to  bed  the  night  before.  Fancy  what 
a  life.  Some  of  ours — I  don't  mean  yours.  Madam, 
but  I  mean  mine  and  others — are  not  much  better, 
though  more  civilised. 

We  went  to  see  the  wizard  Jacobs  at  the  theatre, 
he  came  up  in  the  midst  of  the  entertainment,  and 
spok&  across  the  box  to  the  yoimg  officers ; — he 
knows  them  in  private  life,  they  think  him  a  good 
fellow.  He  came  up  and  asked  them  confidentially, 
if  they  didn't  like  a  trick  he  had  just  i^erformed. 


lo  feeffere  of  ^^ocftemi?. 

"  Neat  little  thing  isn't  it?"  the  great  Jacobs  said, 
"I  brought  it  over  from  Paris."  They  go  to  his 
entertainment  every  night,  fancy  what  a  career  of 
pleasure  ! 

A  wholesome  young  Squire  with  a  large  brown 
face  and  a  short  waistcoat,  came  up  to  us  and  said, 
"  Sorry  you're  goin',  I  have  sent  up  to  barracks  a 
great  lot  o'  rabbuts."  They  were  of  no  use,  those 
rabbnts  ;  the  21st  was  to  march  the  next  day.  I 
saw  the  men  walldng  about  on  the  last  day,  taking 
leave  of  their  sweethearts,  (who  will  probably  be 
consoled  by  the  Slashers). 

I  was  carried  off  by  my  brother-in-law  through 
the  rain,  to  see  a  great  sight,  the  regimental  soup- 
tureens  and  dishcovers,  before  they  were  put  away. 
"  Feel  that  "  says  he,  "  William,  just  feel  the  weight 
of  that !  "  I  was  called  upon  twice  to  try  the  weight 
of  that  soujD  disii,  and  expressed  the  very  highest 
gratification  at  being  admitted  to  that  privilege. 
Poor  simple  young  fellows  and  old  youngsters  !  I 
felt  ashamed  of  myself  for  spying  out  their  follies 
and  fled  from  them  and  came  off  to  Dover.  It  was 
pouring  with  rain  all  day,  and  I  had  no  opportunity 
of  putting  anything  into  the  beautiful  new  sketch 
books. 

I  passed  an  hour  in  the  Cathedral,  which  seemed 
all  beautiful  to  me  ;  the  fifteenth  Centiu-y  i:»art,  the 
thirteenth  century  part,  and  the    crypt  above   all. 


£efter0  of  Z^o^c^^rat.  ii 

\^•hich  ilicy  say  is  older  than  the  Conquest.  The 
most  charming,  harmonious,  powerful  combination 
of  shafts  and  arches,  beautiful  Avhichever  way  you 
saw  them  developed,  like  a  fine  music  or  tlie  figures 
in  a  Kaleidoscope,  rolling  out  mysteriously,  a  beau- 
tiful foundation  for  a  beautiful  building.  I  thought 
how  some  people's  towering  intellects  and  splendid 
cultivated  geniuses  rise  upon  simple,  beautiful 
foundations  hidden  out  of  sight,  and  how  this 
might  be  a  good  simile,  if  I  knew  of  any  very 
good  and  wise  man  just  now.  Cut  I  don't  know 
of  many,  do  you  ? 

Part  of  the  Crypt  was  given  up  to  French  Calvin- 
ists  ;  and  texts  from  the  French  Bible  of  some  later 
sect  are  still  painted  on  the  pillars,  surrounded  by 
French  ornaments,  looking  very  queer  and  out  of 
place.  So,  for  the  matter  of  that,  do  we  look  queer 
and  out  of  place  in  that  grand  soaring  artificial 
building  :  we  may  put  a  shovel  hat  on  the  pinnacle 
of  the  steeple,  as  Omar  did  a  crescent  on  the  peak 
of  the  church  at  Jerusalem  ;  but  it  does  not  belonf; 
to  us,  I  mean  according  to  the  fitness  of  things.  We 
ought  to  go  to  church  in  a  very  strong,  elegant,  beau- 
tifully neat  room ;  croziers,  and  banners,  incense, 
and  jimcracks,  grand  processions  of  priests  and 
monks  (with  an  inquisition  in  the  distance),  and 
lies,  avarice,  tyranny,  torture,  all  sorts  of  horrible 
and  unnatural  oppressions  and  falsehoods  kept  out 


of  sight ;  sucli  n,  place  as  this  ougbt  to  belong  to 
the  old  religiou.  How  somebody  of  my  acquaint- 
ance would  like  to  walk  into  a  beautiful  calm  con- 
fessional and  go  and  kiss  the  rood  or  the  pavement 
of  a'Becket's  shrine.  Fancy  the  church  quite  full ; 
the  altar  lined  with  pontifical  gentlemen  bobbing 
up  and  down  ;  the  dear  little  boys  in  white  and  red 
flinging  about  the  incense  pots  ;  the  music  roaring 
out  from  the  organs  ;  all  the  monks  and  clergy  in 
their  stalls,  and  the  archbishop  on  his  throne — O! 
how  fine  !  And  then  think  of  the  "^  of  our  Lord 
speaking  quite  simjjly  to  simple  Syrian  people,  a 
child  or  two  maybe  at  his  knees,  as  he  taught  them 
that  love  was  the  truth.  Ah !  as  one  thinks  of  it, 
how  grand  that  figure  looks,  and  how  small  all  the 
rest ;  but  I  dare  say  I  am  getting  out  of  my  depth. 

I  came  on  hither  [to  Brussels]  yesterday,  having 
passed  the  day  previous  at  Dover,  where  it  rained 
incessantly,  and  M'here  I  only  had  tlie  courage  to 
■write  the  first  sentence  of  this  letter,  being  utterly 
cast  down  and  more  under  the  influence  of  blue 
devils  than  I  ever  remember  before ;  but  a  fine 
blight  sky  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  a  jolly 
Tn-isk  breeze,  and  the  ship  cutting  through  the  water 
at  fifteen  miles  an  hour,  restored  cheerfulness  to 
this  wearied  spirit,  and  enabled  it  to  partake  freely 
of  Ijeef steak  and  pommes-ac-lerre  at  Ostend  ;  after 
an  hour  of  which  amusement,  it  was  time  to  take 


&etter0  of  ^Ooctterai^.  13 

the  train  and  come  on  to  Brussels.  The  country  is 
delightfully  well  cultivated  ;  all  along  the  line  you 
pass  by  the  most  cheerful  landscapes  with  old  cities,, 
gaixlens,  cornfields  and  rustic  labour. 

At  the  iahle  d'hole  I  sat  next  a  French  Gentle- 
man and  his  lady.  She  first  sent  away  the  bread  ; 
she  then  said  ^'mais,  man  ami,  ce  2^otage  est  abomi- 
nable;"  then  she  took  a  piece  of  pudding  on  her 
fork,  not  to  eat,  but  to  smell,  after  which  she  sent 
it  away.  Experience  told  me  it  was  a  little  grisette 
giving  herself  airs,  so  I  complimented  the  waiter  on 
the  bread,  recommended  the  soup  to  a  man,  and 
took  two  portions  of  the  pudding,  under  her  nose.  / 

Then  we  went  (I  found  a  companion,  an  ardent 
admirer,  in  the  person  of  a  Manchester  mei-chant) 
to  the  play,  to  see  Dejazet,  in  the  "  Gentil  Bernard" 
of  which  piece  I  shall  say  nothing,  but  I  think 
it  was  the  wickedest  I  ever  saw,  and  one  of  the 
pleasantest,  adorably  funny  and  naughty.  As  the 
part  [Gentil  Bernard  is  a  prodigious  rake,)  is  acted 
Ijy  a  woman,  the  reality  is  taken  from  it,  and  one 
can  bear  to  listen,  but  such  a  little  rake,  such  charm- 
ing impudence,  such  little  songs,  such  little  dresses  ! 
She  looked  as  mignonne  as  a  china  image,  and 
danced,  fought,  sang  and  capered,  in  a  way  that 
would  have  sent  Walpole  mad  could  he  have  seen 
her. 

And  now  writing  has  made   me  hungry,  and   if 


M  feeffers  of  ^^ocSerap. 

you  please  I  will  go  and  breakfast  at  a  Cafo  with 
lots  of  newspapers,  and  garrons  bawling  out  "  Voild 
M'sieu  " — how  pleasant  to  think  of !  The  Manches- 
ter admirer  goes  to  London  to-day  and  will  take 
this.  If  you  want  any  more  please  send  me  word 
Foste  Reslante  at  Spa. 

I  am  going  to-day  to  the  Hotel  de  la  Terrasse, 
where  Becky  used  to  live,  and  shall  pass  by  Captain 
Osborn's  lodgings,  where  I  recollect  meeting  him 
and  his  little  wife — who  has  married  again  somebody 
told  me ; — but  it  is  always  the  way  with  these 
gi'andes  j^assions — jMi's.  Dobbins,  or  some  such  name, 
she  is  now  ;  always  an  over-rated  woman,  I  thought. 
How  curious  it  is  !  I  believe  perfectly  in  all  those 
people,  and  feel  quite  an  interest  in  the  Inn  in 
which  they  lived. 

Good  bye,  my  dear  gentleman  and  lady,  and  let 
me  hear  the  latter  is  getting  well. 

W.  M.  T. 

lIoTJci-  DEs  Pays  Bas,  Spa. 

August  l.st  to  .0th.  1848. 

Afy  dear  friends : 

Whoever  you  may  be  wlio  receive  these  lines, — 
for  unless  I  receive  a  letter  from  the  person  whom  I 
])rivately  mean,  I  shall  send  them  jDOst-paid  to  some- 
body else, — I  have  the  pleasure  to  inform  you,  that 
ou  yesterday,  the  30th,  at  7  a.m.,  I  left  Brussels,  with 


feeftere  of  ^^cfterap.  13 

wliicli  I  was  much  pleased,  and  not  a  little  tired, 
and  arrived  quite  safe  per  railroad  and  diligence  at 
the  watering  place  of  Spa.  I  slept  a  great  deal  in 
the  coach,  having  bought  a  book  at  Brussels  to 
amuse  me,  and  having  for  companions,  three  clergy- 
men (of  the  deplorable  Romish  faith)  with  large 
idolatrous  three-cornered  hats,  who  read  their 
breviaries  all  the  time  I  was  awake,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  gave  utterance  to  their  damnable  Popish  opin- 
ions when  the  stranger's  ears  were  closed  ;  and  lucky 
for  the  priests  that  I  was  so  situated,  for  speaking 
their  language  a  great  deal  better  than  they  do 
themselves  (being  not  only  image-worshippers  but 
Belgians,  whose  jargon  is  as  abominable  as  their 
superstition)  I  would  have  engaged  them  in  a  con- 
troversy, in  which  I  daresay  they  would  have  been 
utterly  confounded  by  one  who  had  the  Thirty-nine 
Articles  of  truth  on  his  side.  Their  hats  could 
hardl}'  get  out  of  the  coach  door  when  the}-  quitted 
the  carriage,  and  one  of  them,  when  he  took  off  his, 
to  make  a  parting  salute  to  the  company,  quite  ex- 
tinguished a  little  j)assenger. 

^  We  arrived  at  Spa  at  two  o'clock,  and  being 
driven  on  the  top  of  the  diligence  to  two  of  the  prin- 
cipal hotels,  they  would  not  take  me  in  as  I  had 
only  a  little  portmanteau,  or  at  least  only  would  offer 
me  a  servant's  bedi'oom.  These  miserable  miscreants 
did  not  see   by  my  appearance  that  I  was  not  a 


1 6  &cffer0  of  ^t^ficfterag. 

flunkey,  but  on  the  contrary,  fi  great  and  popular 
author  ;  and  I  intend  to  have  two  fine  pictures 
painted  when  I  return  to  England,  of  the  landlord 
of  the  Hotel  d'Orange  refusing  a  bed-chamber  to 
the  celebrated  Titmarsh,  and  of  the  proprietor  of 
the  Hotel  d'York,  offering  Jeames  a  second-floor 
back  closet.  Poor  misguided  people  !  It  was  on 
the  30th  July  1848.  The  first  thing  I  did  after  ot 
length  securing  a  hmulsome  apartment  at  the  Hotel 
des  Pays  Bas,  was  to  survey  the  town  and  partake 
of  a  glass  of  water  at  the  Pouhon  well,  where  the 
late  Peter  the  Great,  the  impei-ator  of  the  Bo-Rus- 
sians appears  also  to  have  drunk  ;  so  that  two  great 
men  at  l^ast  have  refreshed  themselves  at  that  foun- 
tain. I  was  next  conducted  to  the  baths,  where  a 
splendid  concert  of  wind  and  stringed  instruments 
was  performed  under  my  window,  and  many  hun- 
dreds of  gentle-folks  of  all  nations  were  congregated 
in  the  public  walk,  no  doubt  to  celebrate  my  ar- 
rival. They  are  so  polite  however  at  this  place  of 
elegant  ease,  that  they  didn't  take  the  least  notice 
of  the  Illustrious  Stranger,  but  allowed  him  to  walk 
about  quite  unmolested  and,  (to  all  appearance)  lui- 
rcmarked.  I  went  to  the  table  cVhotc  with  perfect 
affability,  just  like  an  ordinary  person  ;  an  ordinary 
person  at  the  table  d'hote,  mark  the  pleasantry.  If 
that  joke  doesn't  make  your  sides  ache,  what,  my 
dear  friend,  can  move  you?     We  had  a  number  of 


£eftcr6  of  ^^ad^crag.  17 

good  tilings,  fifteen  or  sixteen  too  many  I  should 
say.  I  was  myself  obliged  to  give  in  at  about  tliG 
twenty-fifth  dish  ;  but  there  was  a  Flemish  lady  near 
mc,  a  fair  blue-eyed  being,  who  carried  on  long 
after  the  English  author's  meal  was  concluded,  and 
who  said  j^t  dinner  to-day,  (when  she  beat  me  by  at 
least  treble  the  amount  of  victuals)  that  she  was  lan- 
guid and  tired  all  day,  and  an  invalid,  so  weak  and 
delicate  that  she  could  not  walk.  "No  wonder," 
thought  an  oljserver  of  human  nature,  who  saw  her 
eating  a  second  supply  of  lobster  salad,  which  she 
introduced  with  her  knife,  "  no  wonder,  my  blue- 
eyed  female,  that  you  are  ill,  when  you  take  such  a 
preposterous  quantity  of  nourishment ;  "  but  as  the 
waters  of  this  place  are  eminently  ferruginous,  I 
presume  that  she  used  the  knife  in  question  for  the 
purpose  of  taking  steel  with  her  dinner.  The  sub- 
ject I  feel  is  growing  painful,  and  we  will,  if  you 
please,  turn  to  more  delicate  themes. 

I  retired  to  my  apartment  at  seven,  with  the  same 
book  which  I  had  purchased,  and  which  sent  me 
into  a  second  sleep  until  ten  when  it  was  time  to  go 
to  rest.  At  eight  I  was  up  and  stirring,  at  8.30  I 
was  climbing  the  brow  of  a  little  mountain  which 
overlooks  this  pretty  town,  and  Avhence,  from  among 
firs  and  oaks,  1  could  look  down  upon  the  spires  of 
the  church,  and  the  roofs  of  the  Pvcdoute,  and  the 
principal  and  inferior  buildings  and  the  vast  plains. 


i8  fecttere  of  ^^acfterai?. 

and  hills  bcyoiid,  topped  in  niany  places  with  pine 
woods,  and  covered  with  green  crops  and  yellow 
corn.  Had  I  a  friend  to  walk  Land  in  hand  with, 
him  or  her,  on  these  quiet  hills,  the  promenade 
mcthiulis  might  be  pleixsant.  I  thought  of  many 
such  as  I  j)aced  among  the  rocks  and  shrubberies. 
Breakfast  succeeded  that  solitary,  but  health}'  rev- 
erie, when  cofiee  and  eggs  were  served  to  the  Vic- 
tim of  Sentiment.  Sketch-book  in  hand,  the  indi- 
vidual last  alluded  to  set  forth  in  quest  of  objects 
suitable  for  his  pcncik  But  it  is  more  respectful 
to  Nature  to  look  at  her  and  gaze  with  pleasure, 
rather  than  to  sit  down  with  pert  assurance,  and 
begin  to  take  her  portrait.  A  man  who  persists  in 
sketching,  is  like  one  who  insists  on  singing  during 
the  performance  of  an  opera.  What  business  has 
he  to  be  trying  his  stupid  voice  ?  He  is  not  there 
to  imitate,  but  to  admire  to  the  best  of  his  power. 
Thrice  the  rain  came  down  and  drove  me  away  from 
my  foolish  endeavours,  as  I  was  making  the  most 
abominable  caricatures  of  px'etty,  quaint  cottages, 
shaded  by  huge  ancient  trees. 

In  the  evening  was  a  fine  music  at  the  Redoute, 
which  being  concluded,  those  who  had  a  mind  were 
free  to  repair  to  a  magnificent  neighlwuring  saloon, 
superbly  lighted,  where  a  great  number  of  persons 
were  assembled  amusing  Ihcniselves,  round  two 
tables   covered  with  green    cloth   and  ornamented 


£etfer6  of  ^^acftcmi^.  19 

with  a  great  deal  of  money.  They  were  engaged  at 
a  game  which  seems  very  simple ;  one  side  of  the 
table  is  marked  red  and  the  other  black,  and  yoii 
have  but  to  decide  which  of  the  red  or  the  black 
you  prefer,  and  if  the  colour  you  choose  is  turned 
up  on  the  cards,  which  a  gentleman  deals,  another 
gentleman  opposite  to  him  gives  you  five  francs,  or 
a  naj^oleon  or  whatever  sum  of  money  you  have 
thought  fit  to  bet  upon  your  favourite  colour. 

But  if  your  colour  loses,  then  he  takes  your 
napoleon.  This  he  did,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  to  me 
twice,  and  as  I  thought  this  was  enough,  I  came 
home  and  wrote  a  letter,  full  of  nonsense  to — 


[Auf/iist  11th  ] 

My  Dear  Mrs.  Brookfiehi  : 

You  see  how  nearly  you  were  missing  this  delight- 
ful letter,  for  upon  my  word  I  had  packed  it  up 
small  and  was  going  to  send  it  off  in  a  rage  to  some- 
body else,  this  very  day,  to  a  young  lady  whom 
some  people  think  over-rated  very  likely,  or  to  some 
deserving  person,  when,  0  gioja  e  felicitd  (I  don't 
know  Avhether  that  is  the  way  to  spell  gioja,  but 
rather  pique  myself  on  the  g)  when  O  !  honheur  su- 
preme, the  waiter  enters  my  door  at  10  o'clock  this 
morning,  just  as  I  had  finished  writing  page  seven 
of  PENDENNIS,  and  brings  me   the  Timen  news- 


20  fcefters  of  Z^fC^c^txat' 

paper  and  a  beautiful  thick  "/^  letter,  in  a  fine  large 
Land.  I  eagerly  seized — the  uewspajier,  (ha  ha !  I 
had  somebody  there)  and  was  quickly  absorbed  in 
its  contents.  The  news  from  Ireland  is  of  great 
interest  and  importance,  and  we  may  indeed  return 
thanks  that  the  deplorable  revolution  and  rebellion, 
which  everybody  anticii^ated  in  that  country,  has 
been  averted  in  so  singular,  I  may  say  unprece- 
dented a  manner.  How  pitiful  is  the  figure  cut  by 
Mr.  Smith  O'Brien,  and  indeed  by  Popery  alto- 
gether! &c.  &c. 

One  da}^  is  passed  away  here  very  like  its  defunct 
predecessor.  I  have  not  lost  any  more  money  at  the 
odious  gambling  table,  but  go  and  watch  the  play- 
ers there  with  a  great  deal  of  interest.  There  are 
ladies  playing — young  and  pretty  ones  too.  One  is 
very  like  a  lady  I  used  to  know,  a  curate's  wife  in  a 
street  off  Golden  Square,  ivhatdyoucallit  street,  where 
the  pianoforte  maker  lives  ;  and  I  dare  say  this  per- 
son is  puzzled  why  I  always  go  and  stare  at  her  so. 
She  has  her  whole  soul  in  the  i^astime,  puts  out  her 
five-franc  pieces  in  the  most  timid  way,  and  watches 
them  disappear  under  the  croupier's  rake  with  eyes 
so  uncommonly  sad  and  tender,  that  I  feel  inclined 
to  go  up  to  her  and  say  "  Madam,  you  are  exceed- 
ingly like  a  lady,  a  curate's  wife  whom  I  once  knew, 
in  England,  and  as  I  take  an  interest  in  you,  I  wish 
you  would  get  out  of  this  place  as  quick  as  you  can, 


g^cffers  of  ^^cftcrai?.  2/ 

nud  take  your  beautiful  eyes  off  the  black  and  red." 
But  I  suppose  it  would  be  thought  rude  if  I  were  to 
make  any  such  statement  and —  Ah  !  what  do  I  re- 
member? There's  no  use  in  sending  off  this  letter 
to-day,  this  is  Friday,  and  it  cannot  be  delivered  on 
Sunday  in  a  Protestant  metropolis.     There  was  no 

use  in  hurrying  home  from  Lady  ,  (Never 

mind,  it  is  only  an  Irish  baronet's  wife,  who  tries  to 
disguise  her  Limerick  brogue,  but  the  fact  is  she 
has  an  exceedingly  pretty  daughter),  I  say  there  was 
no  use  in  hurrying  home  so  as  to  get  this  off  by 
the  post. 

Yesterday  I  didn't  know  a  soul  in  this  place,  but 
got  in  the  course  of  the  day  a  neat  note  from  a  lady 
who  had  the  delight  of  an  introduction  to  me  at 
D-v-nsh-re  House,  and  who  proposed  tea  in  the  most 
flattering  manner.  Now,  I  know  a  French  duke  and 
duchess,  and  at  least  six  of  the  most  genteel  persons 
in  Spa,  and  some  of  us  are  going  out  riding  in  a  few 
minutes,  the  rain  having  cleared  off,  the  sky  being 
bright,  and  the  surrounding  hills  and  woods  look- 
ing uncommonly  green  and  tempting. 

A  pause  of  two  hours  is  supposed  to  have  taken 
place  since  the  above  ivas  written.  A  gentleman  enters, 
as  if  from  horseback,  into  the  room  No.  32  of  the  Ho- 
tel des  Pays  Bas,  looking  on  to  the  fountain  in  the 
Grande  Place.     He  divests  himself  of  a  part  of  his 


22  fecffere  of  ^^acfterap. 

drcHS,  which  has  been  spattered  ivilh  mud  during  an 
arduous  but  delightful  ride  over  commons,  roads, 
ivuods,  nay,  mountains.  He  curls  his  hair  in  the  most 
killing  manner,  and  prei^res  to  go  out  to  dinner. 
The  jyurple  shadows  are  falling  on  the  Grande  Place, 
and  the  roofs  of  the  houses  looking  westward  are  in  a 
flame.  The  clock  of  the  old  cJiurch  st^-ikes  six.  It  is 
the  appointed  hour ;  lie  gives  one  last  glance  at  the 
looking-glass,  and  his  last  thougld  is  for — (seepage  4 — 
last  three  words.) 

The  dinner  was  exceedingly  stupid,  I  very  nearly 
fell  asleep  by  the  side  of  the  lady  of  the  house.  It 
was  all  over  by  nine  o'clock,  half  an  hour  before 
^Payne  comes  to  fetch  you  to  bed,  and  I  went  to  the 
gambling  house  and  lost  two  napoleons  more.  May 
this  be  a  warning  to  all  dissipated  middle-aged  per- 
sons. I  have  just  got  two  new  novels  from  the 
liljrar}-  by  IMr.  Fielding  ;  the  one  is  Amelia,  the  most 
delightful  portrait  of  a  woman  that  surely  ever  was 
painted  ;  the  other  is  Josejjh  Andrews,  which  gives 
me  no  particular  pleasure,  for  it  is  both  coarse  and 
careless,  and  the  author  makes  an  absurd  brag  of 
his  twopenny  learning,  upon  which  he  values  him- 
self evidently  more  than  ui:)on  the  best  of  his  own 
qualities.  Good  night,  you  see  I  am  writing  to  you 
as  if  I  was  talking.  It  is  but  ten  o'clock,  and  yet  it 
seems  quite  time  here  to  go  to  bed.     .     .     . 

I  have  got  a  letter  from  Annie,  so  clever,  humour- 


£effer0  of  ^^ocftetag.  2} 

ous  and  wise,  tliat  it  is  fit  to  bo  printed  in  a  book. 
As  for  Miss  Jingleby,  I  admire  her  pretty  face  and 
manners  more  than  her  singing,  which  is  very  nice, 
and  just  what  a  lady's  sliould  be,  but  I  believe  my 
heart  is  not  engaged  in  that  quarter.  Why  there 
is  six  times  as  much  writing  in  my  letter  as  in 
yours  !  you  ought  to  scud  me  ever  so  many  pages 
if  bargains  were  equal  between  the  male  and  fe- 
male, but  they  never  are.  Tiiere  is  a  prince  here 
who  is  seventy-two  year's  of  age  and  wears  frills  to 
his  trowsers. 

What  if  I  were  to  pay  my  bill  and  go  oflf  this  min- 
ute to  the  Ehine  ?  It  would  be  better  to  see  that 
than  these  genteel  dandies  here.  I  don't  care  about 
the  beauties  of  the  Ehine  any  more,  but  it  is  al- 
ways pleasant  and  friendly.  There  is  no  reason 
Avhy  I  should  not  sleep  at  Bonn  to-night,  looking 
out  on  the  Rhine  opposite  Drachenfels — that  is  the 
best  way  of  travelling  surely,  never  to  know  where 
you  are  going  until  the  moment  and  fate  say  "  go." 
Who  knows  ?  By  setting  off  at  twelve  o'clock, 
something  may  happen  to  alter  the  whole  course  of 
my  life  ?  perhaps  I  may  meet  with  some  beautiful 
creature  who  .  .  .  But  then  it  is  such  a  bore, 
packing  up  those  shirts.  I  wonder  whether  anybody 
will  write  to  me  jjo.s/e  restanle  at  Homburg,  near 
Frankfort-on-the-Maine  ?  And  if  you  would  kindly 
send  a  line  to  Annie  at  Captain  Alexander's,  Mont- 


24  £etfer6  of  ^t^acftcra^. 

pellior  Road,  Twickcnliam,  telling  her  to  write  to 
me  there  and  not  at  Brussels,  you  would  add,  Mad- 
ame, to  the  mauy  obligations  you  have  already  con- 
ferred on 

Your  most  faithful  servant, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

I  have  made  a  dreadful  dumpy  little  letter,  but 
an  envelope  would  cost  '/o  more.  I  don't  like  to  say 
anything  disrespectful  of  Dover,  as  you  are  going 
there,  but  it  seemed  awfully  stupid.  May  I  come 
and  see  you  as  I  pass  through  ?  A  line  at  the  Ship 
for  me  would  not  fail  to  bring  me. 

21  August.  [1848]   Home. 
[TO  MR.  BROOKFIELD] 

My  dear  old  B.  : 

I  am  just  come  back  and  execute  my  first  vow, 
which  was  to  toll  you  on  landing  that  there  is  a 
certain  bath  near  Minden,  and  six  hours  from  Co- 
logne by  tlio  railway  (so  that  people  may  go  all  the 
way  at  their  ease)  where  all  sorts  of  complaints — 
including  of  course  yours,  all  and  several,  are  to  bo 
cured.  The  bath  is  Rehda,  station  Rehda.  Dr. 
Sutro  of  the  London  German  Hospital,  knows  all 
about  it.  I  met  an  acquaintance  just  come  thence, 
(a  Mrs.  Bracebridge  and  her  mart)  who  told  me  of 
it.     People  are  gi-ound  young  there — a  young  phy- 


Eeffer0  of  ^^acftemp.  2^^ 

eician  has  been  cured  of  far  gone  tubercles  in  the 
lungs ;  maladies  of  languor,  rheumatism,  liver  com- 
plaints, all  sorts  of  wonders  are  performed  there, 
especially  female  wonders. 

Y  not  take  Madame  there,  go,  drink,  bathe,  and 
be  cured  ?  Y  not  go  there  as  well  as  anywhere  else 
this  summer  season  ?  Y  not  come  up  and  see  this 
German  doctor,  or  ask  Bullar  to  write  to  him  ? 
Do,  my  dear  old  fellow  ;  and  I  will  vow  a  candle  to 
honest  Home's  chapel  if  you  are  cured.  Did  the 
Vienna  beer  in  which  I  drank  your  health,  not  do 
you  any  good?  God  bless  yon,  my  dear  Brookfield, 
and  believe  that  I  am  always  affectionately  yours, 

W,  M.  T. 

[  1848  ] 

My  dear  Mrs.  Brookfield  : 

Now  tliat  it  is  over  and  irremediable  I  am  think- 
ing with  a  sort  of  horror  of  a  bad  joke  in  the  last 
number  of  Variitij  Fair,  which  may  perhaps  annoy 
some  body  whom  I  wouldn't  wish  to  displease. 
Amelia  is  i-epresented  as  having  a  lady's  maid,  and 
the  lady's  maid's  name  is  Payne.  I  laughed  when  I 
wrote  it,  and  thought  that  it  was  good  fun,  but  now, 
who  knows  whether  you  and  Payne  and  everybody 
won't  be  angry,  and  in  fine,  I  am  in  a  great  tremor. 
The  only  way  will  be,  for  you  I  fear  to  change 
Payne's  name  to  her  Cluistian  one.     Pray  don't  be 


26  £cfter6  of  ^^actterap. 

augrj  if  you  arc,  and  forj^ive  mo  if  I  have  offended. 
You  know  jou  are  only  a  piece  of  Amelia,  my 
mother  is  another  half,  my  poor  little  wife — y  est 
j)Our  beaucoiq). 

and  I  am 

Yours  most  sincerely 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

I  hope  you  will  write  to  say  that  you  forgive  me. 

October  1848. 

13  Young  Street,  Kensington. 

My  Dear  Lady  Broohfidd  : 

I  wrote  you  a  letter  three  nights  ago  in  the  French 
language,  describing  my  disappointment  at  not  hav- 
ing received  any  news  of  you.  Those  which  I  had 
from  Mrs.  Turpin  were  not  good,  and  it  would  have 
been  a  pleasure  to  your  humble  servant  to  have  had 
a  line.  Mr.  William  dined  with  the  children  good- 
naturedly  on  Sunday,  when  I  was  yet  away  at 
Brighton. 

My  parents  are  not  come  yet,  the  old  gentleman 
having  had  an  attack  of  illness  to  which  he  is  sub- 
ject ;  but  they  promised  to  be  with  me  on  Tuesday, 
some  day  next  week  I  hope.  I  virtuously  refused 
three  invitations  by  this  day's  post,  and  keep  myself 
in  readiness  to  pass  the  first  two  or  three  evenings 
on  u\y  Papa's  lap. 


feeffer0  of  ^^acfierai?.  2y 

That  night  I  wrote  to  you  the  French  letter,  I 
wrote  one  to  Miss  Brandauer,  the  governess,  warn- 
ing her  off.  I  didn't  send  either.  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  send  yours  though,  it  is  rather  funny,  though 
I  daresay  with  plenty  of  mistakes,  and  written  by 
quite  a  different  man,  to  the  Englishman  who  is 
yours  respectfully,  A  language  I  am  sure  would 
change  a  man  ;  so  does  a  handwriting.  I  am  sure  if 
I  wrote  to  you  in  this  hand,  and  adojited  it  for  a 
continuance,  my  disposition  and  sentiments  would 
alter  and  all  my  views  of  life.  I  tried  to  coj^y,  not 
now  but  the  other  day,  a  letter  Miss  Procter  showed 
mo  from  her  uncle,  in  a  commercial  hand,  and  found 
myself  after  three  pages  quite  an  honest,  regular, 
stupid,  commercial  man  ;  such  is  sensibility  and  the 
mimetic  faculty  in  some  singularly  organized  beings. 
How  many  people  are  you  ?  You  are  Dr.  Packman's 
Mrs.  B,  and  Mrs.  Jackson's  Mrs.  B,  and  Ah  !  you  are 
my  Mi's.  B.  you  know  you  are  now,  and  quite  differ- 
ent to  us  all,  and  you  are  your  sister's  Mrs.  B.  and 
Miss  Wyime's,  and  you  make  gentle  fun  of  us  all 
round  to  your  private  B.  and  offer  us  up  to  make 
him  sport.  You  see  I  ana  making  you  out  to  be  an 
Ogre's  wife,  and  poor  William  the  Ogre,  to  whom 
you  sei've  us  up  cooked  for  dinner.  Well,  stick  a 
knife  into  me,  here  is  my  busam ;  I  won't  cry  out, 
you  poor  Ogre's  wife,  I  know  you  are  good-natured 
and  soft-hearted  aufond. 


28  Ecffers  of  t^acHcra^. 

I  have  been  rc-rcading  the  IToggarty  Diamond 
tliis  morning ;  iii^on  my  word  and  honour,  if  it 
doesn't  make  you  cry,  I  shall  have  a  mean  oj^inion  of 
you.  It  was  written  at  a  time  of  great  affliction, 
when  my  heart  was  very  soft  and  humble.  Amen. 
Ich  habe  auch  viol  gclieht. 

Why  shouldn't  I  start  off  this  instant  for  the  G. 
W.  Station  and  come  and  shake  hands,  and  ask  your 
family  for  some  dinner  ;  I  should  like  it  very  much. 
Well,  I  am  looking  out  of  the  window  to  see  if  the 
rain  will  stop,  or  give  me  an  excuse  for  not  going 
to  Hatton  to  the  Chief  Baron's.  I  won't  go — that's 
a  comfort. 

I  am  writing  to  William  to  ask  him  to  come  and 
dine  to-morrow,  we  will  drink  your  health  if  ho 
comes.  I  should  like  to  take  another  sheet  and  go 
on  tittle-tattling,  it  drops  off  almost  as  fast  as  talk- 
ing. I  fancy  you  lying  on  the  sofa,  and  the  boy 
outside,  walking  up  and  down  the  oss.  But  I  wont. 
To-morrow  is  Sunday.  Good  bye,  dear  lady,  and 
believe  me  yours  in  the  most  friendly  manner. 

W.  M.  T. 

[  KEPLY  TO  AN  INVITATION  TO  DINNER,  A  PEW  DAYS  LATER  ] 

Had  I  but  ten  minutes  sooner 

Got  your  hospitable  line, 
'Twould  have  been  delight  and  honour 

With  a  gent  like  you  to  dine  ; — 


£cffcr6  of  ^Oacilcrai?.  29 

But  my  Avord  is  passed  to  others, 

Fitz,  he  is  engaged  too  : 
Agony  my  bosom  smothers, 

As  I  write  adieu,  adieu  ! 


[  LINES   SENT   IN   A   NOTE    OF   ABOUT   THIS  DATE  ] 

I  was  making  this  doggerel  instead  of  writing  my 
Piuich  this  morning,  shall  I  send  it  ur  no? 

'Tis  one  o'clock,  the  boy  from  Fundi  is  sitting  in 

the  passage  here, 
It  used  to  be  the  hour  of  lunch  at  Portman  Street, 

near  Portman  Squeer. 
O !  stupid  little  printers'  boy,  I  cannot   write,  my 

head  is  queer. 
And  all  my  foolish  brains  employ  in  thinking  of  a 

lady  dear. 
It  was  but  yesterday,  and  on  my  honest  word  it 

seems  a  year — 
As  yet  that  pei'son  was  not  gone,  as  yet  I  saw  that 

lady  dear — 
She's  left  us  now,  my  boy,  and  all  this  town,  this 

life,  is  blank  and  drear. 
Thou  printers'  devil  iu  the  hall,  didst  ever  see  my 

lady  dear. 
You'd  understand,  you  little  knave,  I  think,  if  you 

could  only  see  her, 


^o  EetferB  of  ^^ocfiera)?. 

Why  now  I  look  so  glum  and  grave  for  losing  of 

this  lady  deai\ 
A  lonely  raan  I  am  in  life,  my  business  is  to  joke 

and  jeer, 
A  lonely  man  without  a  wife,  God  took  from  me  a 

lady  dear. 
A  friend  I  had,  and  at  his  side, — the  story  dates 

from  seven  long  year — 
One  day  I  found  a  blushing  bride,  a  tender  lady 

kind  and  dear ! 
They  took    me  in,  they  pitied  me,  they  gave    me 

kindly  Avords  and  cheer, 
A  kinder   welcome  who  shall   see,  than   yours,  O, 

friend  and  lady  dear  ? 

The  rest  is  wanting. 

1848. 
[TO  MR.  BROOKFIELD] 

My  dear  Vieux  : 

When  I  came  home  last  night  I  found  a  beau- 
tiful opera  ticket  for  this  evening, — Jenny  Lind, 
charming  bal/ij,  box  72. — I  am  going  to  dine  at  home 
with  the  children  and  shall  go  to  the  opera,  and 
will  leave  your  name  down  below.  Do  come  and 
we  will  sit,  we  2,  and  see  the  jiiece  like  2  lords,  and 
we  can  do  the  other  part  afterwards.     I  present  my 


feetfere  of  t^ac^cra^.  Jf 

respectful  compliments  to  Mrs.  Brookfield  and  am 

yours, 

W.  M.  T. 

If  you  can  come  to  diimer,  there's  a  curry. 
Oct.  4th  1848 

Dear  Mrs.  Brookfield: 

If  you  Avould  write  me  a  line  to  say  that  you 
made  a  good  journey  and  were  pretty  well,  to  Sir 
Thomas  Cullam's,  Hardwick,  Bury  St.  Edmunds, 
you  would  confer  indeed  a  favour  on  yours  respect- 
fully. William  dined  here  last  night  and  was  pretty 
cheerful.  As  I  passed  by  Portman  Street,  after  you 
were  gone,  just  to  take  a  look  up  at  the  windows, 
the  usual  boy  started  forward  to  take  the  horse.  I 
laughed  a  sad  laugh.  I  didn't  want  nobody  to  take 
the  horse.  It's  a  long  time  since  you  were  away. 
The  cab  is  at  the  door  to  take  me  to  the  raih-oad. 
Mrs.  Procter  was  very  kind  and  Adelaide  sympa- 
thised with  me.  I  have  just  opened  my  desk,  there 
are  all  the  papers  I  had  at  Spa — Pendennis,  unread 
since,  and  your  letter.  Good  bye,  dear  Mrs.  Brook- 
field, always  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 

L'hojnme  pj'opose.  Since  this  was  wrote  the  au- 
thor went  to  the  railroad,  found  that  he  arrived  a 


3^  £cftcr0  of  ^^ocfterap. 

iniuutc  too  late,  and  that  there  were  no  trains  for 
4rV  hours.  So  I  came  back  into  town  and  saw  the 
pubhshers,  who  begged  and  implored  me  so,  not  to 
go  out  pleasuring,  &c.,  that  I  am  going  to  Brigh- 
ton instead  of  Bury.  I  looked  in  the  map,  I  was 
thinking  of  coming  to  Weston-Super-Mare, — only 
it  seemed  such  a  hint. 

[  Club  ] 
[TO  MR.  BROOKPIELD] 

October  1848. 

My  dear  Reverence : 

I  take  up  the  pen  to  congratulate  you  on  the 
lovely  weather,  which  must,  with  the  company  of 
those  to  whom  you  are  attached,  render  yonv  stay 
at  Clevedon'  so  delightful.  It  snowed  here  this 
morning,  since  which  there  has  been  a  fog  succeeded 
by  a  drizzly  rain.  I  have  passed  the  day  writing 
and  trying  to  alter  Pendennis,  which  is  without  any 
manner  of  doubt,  awfully  stupid ;  the  very  best 
passages,  which  pleased  the  author  only  last  week, 
looking  hideously  dull  by  the  dull  fog  of  this  day. 

'  Clevedon  Court,  Somer.setshire,  often  referred  to  in  these  letters,  ami 
already  mentioned  in  the  note  p.  5,  the  home  ot  Sir  Charles  Elton,  Mrs. 
Urookfiold's  father. 

Clevedon  Court  dates  from  the  reign  o£  Kdvvard  II.  (l.*?07  to  1-327),  and 
though  added  to  and  altered  in  Elizabeth's  time,  the  original  plan  can  be 
clearly  traced  and  much  of  the  11th  Century  work  i.s  untouched.  The 
manor  of  Clevedon  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Eltons  in  170'.),  the  present 
pi-»^8eRsor  being  Sir  Edmund  Elton,  8th  Baronet. 

The  manor-house  is  the  original  of  Castlewood  in  Etmoitd. 


£effer6  of  <t^acSerag.  33 

I  i'>ray,  I  prn.}',  that  it  may  be  the  weather.  Will 
you  say  something  for  it  at  church  next  Sunday? 

My  old  parents  arrived  last  night,  it  was  qvtite  a 
sight  to  see  the  poor  old  mother  with  the  children  : 
and  Bradbury,  the  printer,  coming  to  dun  me  for 
Pendennis  this  morning.  I  slunk  away  from  home, 
where  writing  is  an  vitter  impossibility,  and  have 
been  operating  on  it  here.  The  real  truth  is  now, 
that  there  is  half  an  hour  before  dinner,  and  I  don't 
know  what  to  do,  unless  I  write  yo\x  a  screed,  to 
pass  away  the  time.  There  are  secret  and  selfish 
motives  in  the  most  seemingly  generous  actions  of 
men. 

T'other  day  I  went  to  Harley  Street  and  saw  the 
most  beautiful  pair  of  embroidered  slippers,  worked 
for  a  lady  at  whose  feet  .  .  .  ;  and  I  begin  more 
and  more  to  think  Adelaide  Procter,  an  uncommonly 
nice,  dear,  good  girl.  Old  Dilkc  of  the  Atliencenm, 
vows  that  Procter  and  his  wife,  between  them,  wrote 
Jane  Eyre,  and  when  I  protest  ignorance,  says, 
"  Pooh  !  you  know  who  wrote  it,  yoit  are  the  deep- 
est rogue  in  England,  &c."  I  wonder  whether  it 
can  be  true  ?  It  is  just  possible,  and  then  what  a 
singular  circumstance  is  the  ■!■  fire  of  the  two  ded- 
ications.' 0!  Mon  Dieuf  but  I  wish  Pendennis 
were  better. 

As  if  I  had  not  enough  to  do,  I  have  begun  to 

'  Jane  Eyre  to  Thnckeray,  Vanity  Fair  to  Barry  Cornwall. 

3 


S4  £effet0  of  ^^acfterai?. 

blaze  away  in  tlio  Chronicle  again :  it's  an  awful 
bribe — that  five  guineas  an  article.  After  I  saw  you 
on  Sunday  I  did  actually  come  back  straight^  on  the 
omnibus.  I  have  been  to  the  Cider  Cellars  since 
again  to  hear  the  man  sing  about  going  to  be 
hanged,  I  have  had  a  headache  afterwards,  I  have 
drawn,  I  have  written,  I  have  distracted  my  mind 
with  healthy  labor.  Now  wasn't  this  much  better 
than  plodding  about  with  you  in  heavy  boots  amidst 
fields  and  woods  ?  But  unless  you  come  back,  and 
as  soon  as  my  work  is  done,  I  thought  a  day  or  two 
would  bo  pleasantly  spent  in  your  society,  if  the 
house  of  Clevedon  admits  of  holding  any  more. 

Does  Harry  Hallam  go  out  with  dog  and  gun? 
I  should  like  to  come  and  see  him  shoot,  and  in 
fact,  get  up  field   sports  through   him  and  others. 

[  Here  a  draiciiuj  in  ilia  orlgiiud  letter  ] 

Do  you  remark  all  that  elaborate  shading,  the  shot 
&c.,?  All  that  has  been  done  to  while  away  the 
time  until  the  dinner's  ready,  and  upon  my  con- 
science I  believe  it  is  very  near  come.  Yes,  it  is 
6^.  If  Mrs.  Parr  is  at  Clevedon,  present  the  re- 
spects of  Mephistopheles,  as  also  to  any  other  per- 
sons with  whom  I  am  acquainted  in  your  numerous 
and  agreeable  family  circle. 


feeftere  of  ^^ftcrag.  33 

Los  Angeles,  Uai- 
1848 

[TO   MR.  BROOKFIELD] 

Va  diner  cliez  ton  classique  ami,  tant  renomme 
pour  Ic  Grec,  Jo  ne  pourrais  mieux  faire  que  de 
passer  la  soiree  avec  unc  famillc  que  j'ai  negligee 
quelque  peu — la  mienne.  Oui,  Monsieur,  dans  les 
caresses  innocentes  de  nies  enfans  cberis,  dans  la 
conversation  odifiante  de  Monsieur  mon  beau-pere, 
je  tacherai  de  me  consoler  de  ta  seconde  infidelite. 
Samedi  je  ne  i)uis  venir  :  J'ai  d'autres  engagemens 
auxquels  je  ne  veux  pas  manquer.  Va.  Sois  heu- 
reux.     Jo  te  pardonne. 

Ton  melancholique  ami 

Chevalier  de  Titmaesh. 

[  1st  November,  1848  ] 

Dear  Mrs.  Brook  field : 

I  was  at  Oxford  by  the  time  your  dinner  was  ovex-, 
and  found  eight  or  nine  jovial  gentlemen  in  black, 
feasting  in  the  common  room  and  drinking  port 
wine  solemnly.  .  .  .  We  had  a  great  sitting  of  Port 
wine,  and  I  daresay  the  evening  was  pleasant  enough. 
They  gave  me  a  bed  in  College, ^such  a  bed,  I  could 
not  sleep.  Yesterday,  (for  this  is  half  past  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  would  you  believe  it  ?)  a  j^arty 
of  us  drove  in  an  Oxford  Cart  to  Blenheim,  where 


^6  feeffere  of  ^^cftera^. 

we  saw  some  noble  pictures,  a  i^ortrait  by  Raphael, 
cue  of  the  great  RajDhaeLs  of  the  world, — (Look,  this 
is  college  paper,  with  beautiful  lines  akeady  made) 
— A  series  of  magnificent  Rubens,  one  of  which, 
representing  himself  walking  in  a  garden  with  Mrs. 
Rubens  and.  the  baby,  did  one  good  to  look  at  and 
remember  ;  and  some  very  questionable  Titians  in- 
deed— I  mean  on  the  score  of  authenticity,  not  of 
morals,  though  the  subjects  are  taken  from  the  loves 
of  those  extraordinary  gods  and  goddesses,  men- 
tioned in  Lempriere's  Dictionary, — and  we  walked 
in  the  park,  with  much  profit ;  surveying  the  great 
copper-coloured  trees,  and  the  glum  old  bridge  and 
pillar  and  Rosamond's  Well ;  and  the  queer,  grand, 
ugly  but  magnificent  house,  a  piece  of  splendid  bar- 
barism, yet  grand  and  imposing  somehow,  like  a 
chief  raddled  over  Avith  war-paint,  and  attired  with 
careful  hideousness.  Well,  I  can't  make  out  the 
simile  on  paper,  though  it's  in  my  own  mind  pretty 
clear.  What  you  would  have  liked  best  was  the 
chapel  dedicated  to  God  and  the  Duke  of  Marlbor- 
ough. The  monument  to  the  latter,  occupies  the 
whole  place,  almost,  so  that  the  former  is  quite  sec- 
ondary. 0  !  what  comes  ?  It  was  the  scout  who 
brought  me  your  letter,  and  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  3'ou  for  it.     .     .     . 

I  was  very  sorry  indeed   to  hear  that  you  have 
been   ill — I  was  afraid  the  journey  would  agitate 


£eftcr6  of  ^^citerag.  J7 

you,  that  was  what  I  was  thinking  of  as  I  Avas  lying 
in  the  Oxford  man's  bed  awake. 

Aftei-  Blenheim  I  went  to  Magdalen  Chapel  to  a  \ 
High  Mass  there.  O  cherubim  and  seraphim,  how 
you  would  like  it !  The  chapel  is  the  most  sumptuous 
edifice,  carved  and  frittered  all  over  with  the  richest 
stone-work  like  the  lace  of  a  lady's  boudoir.  The 
windows  are  fitted  with  pictures  of  the  saints  paint- 
ed in  a  grey  colour, — real  Catholic  saints,  male  and 
female  I  mean,  so  that  I  wondered  how  they  got 
there  ;  and  this  makes  a  sort  of  rich  twilight  in  the 
church,  which  is  lighted  up  by  a  multitude  of  wax 
candles  in  gold  sconces,  and  you  say  your  prayers 
in  carved  stalls  wadded  with  velvet  cushions.  They 
have  a  full  chorus  of  boys,  some  two  dozen  I  should 
think,  who  sing  quite  ravishingly.  It  is  a  sort  of 
perfection  of  sensuous  gratification  ;  children's  voices 
charm  me  so,  that  they  set  all  my  sensibilities  into  a 
quiver  ;  do  they  you  ?  I  am  sure  they  do.  These 
pretty  brats  with  sweet  innocent  voices  and  white 
robes,  sing  quite  celestially  ; — no,  not  celestially,  for 
I  don't  believe  it  is  devotion  at  all,  but  a  high  de- 
light out  of  which  one  comes,  not  impurified  I  hope,  •' 
but  with  a  thankful  pleased  gentle  frame  of  mind./^  I 
suppose  I  have  a  great  faculty  of  enjoyment.  At 
Clevedon  I  had  gratification  in  looking  at  trees,  land- 
scapes, effects  of  shine  and  shadow  &c.,  which  made 
that  dear  old  Inspector  who  Avalked  with  me,  won- 


38  Eeffere  of  t^citemp. 

der.  Well  there  can  bo  no  harm  in  this  I  am  sure. 
What  a  shame  it  is  to  go  on  bragging  about  what 
is  after  all  sheer  roaring  good  health  for  the  most 
part ;  and  now  I  am  going  to  breakfast.  Good  bye. 
I  have  been  lionising  the  town  ever  since,  and  am 
come  home  quite  tired.  I  have  breakfasted  here, 
lunched  at  Christ  Church,  seen  Merton,  and  All  Souls 
with  Norman  Macdouald,  where  there  is  a  beautiful 
library  and  a  boar's  head  in  the  kitchen,  over  which 
it  was  good  to  see  Norman's  eyes  gloating  ;  and  it 
being  All  Saints'  day,  I  am  going  to  chapel  here, 
where  they  have  also  a  ver}'^  good  music  I  am  told. 

Are  you  better  ma'am  ?  I  hope  you  are.  On  Fri- 
day I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  to  see  you,  and  am 
till  then,  and  even  till  Saturday, 

Yours, 

W.  M.  T. 

[29th  J^ov:  1848] 
/  My  dear  Lady : 

I  am  very  much  pained  and  shocked  at  the  news 
brought  at  dinner  to-day  that  poor  dear  Charles 
]iuller  is  gone.  Good  God!  think  about  the  poor 
mother  surviving,  and  what  an  anguish  that  must 
bo  !  If  I  were  to  die  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  my 
mother  living  beyond  me,  as  I  daresay  she  will. 
But  isn't  it  an  awful,  awful,  sudden  summons? 
There  go  wit,  fame,  friendship,  ambition,  high   re- 


fecftere  of  ^^aciterag.  iP 

pute !  Ah  !  aimonfi  nous  bicn.  It  seems  to  me  tliat 
is  the  only  thing  we  can  carry  away.  When  we  go, 
let  us  have  some  who  love  us  wherever  we  are.  I 
send  you  this  little  line  as  I  tell  you  and  William 
most  things.     Good  night. 

Tuesday.     [Nov.  1848] 

Good  night  my  dear  Madam. 

Since  I  came  home  from  dining  with  Mr.  Morier, 
I  have  been  writing  a  letter  to  Mr.  T.  Carlyle  and 
thinking  about  other  things  as  well  as  the  letter  all 
the  time  ;  and  I  have  read  over  a  letter  I  received 
to-day  which  apologizes  for  everything  and  whereof 
the  tremulous  author  ceaselessly  doubts  and  mis- 
gives. Who  knows  whether  she  is  not  converted 
by  Joseph  Bullar  by  this  time.  She  is  a  sister  of 
mine,  and  her  name  is  God  bless  her. 

Wednesday.  I  was  at  work  until  seven  o'clock ; 
not  to  ver}^  much  purjiose,  but  executing  with  great 
labour  and  hardship  the  days  work.  Then  I  went 
to  dine  with  Dr.  Hall,  the  ci'ack  doctor  here,  a  liter- 
ate man,  a  traveller,  and  otherwise  a  kind  bigwig. 
After  dinner  we  went  to  hear  Mr.  Sortain  lecture, 
of  whom  you  may  perhaps  have  heard  me  speak,  as 
a  great,  remarkable  orator  and  preacher  of  the  Lady 
Huntingdon  Connexion.  (The  i^aper  is  so  greasy 
that  I  am  forced  to  try  several  pens  and  manners  of 
handwriting,  but   none   will   do.)     We   had  a  fine 


40  fecfferc  of  ^^ocftetai?. 

lecture  with  brilliant  Irish  metaphors  and  outbursts 
of  rhetoric  addressed  to  an  assembly  of  mechanics, 
shopboys  and  young  women,  who  could  not,  and 
perhaps  had  best  not,  understand  that  flashy  speak- 
er. It  was  about  the  origin  of  nations  he  spoke, 
one  of  those  big  themes  on  which  a  man  ma}'  talk 
eternally  and  with  a  never  ending  outpoui-ing  of 
words ;  and  he  talked  magnificently,  about  the  Arabs 
for  the  most  part,  and  tried  to  prove  that  because 
the  Arabs  acknowledged  their  descent  from  Ishmael 
or  Esau,  therefore  the  Old  Testament  History  was 
true.  But  the  Arabs  may  have  had  Esau  for  a 
father  and  yet  the  bears  may  not  have  eaten  up  the 
little  children  for  quizzing  Elisha's  bald  head.  As 
I  was  writing  to  Carlyle  last  night,  (I  haven't  sent 
the  letter  as  usual,  and  shall  not  most  likely,)  Saint 
Stephen  was  pelted  to  death  by  Old  Testaments,  and 
Oiu-  Lord  was  killed  like  a  felon  by  the  law,  which 
He  came  to  repeal.  I  was  thinking  about  Joseph 
Bullar's  doctrine  after  I  went  to  bed,  founded  on 
what  I  cannot  but  think  a  blasphemous  asceticism, 
which  has  obtained  in  the  world  ever  so  long,  and 
which  is  disposed  to  curse,  hate  and  undervalue 
the  world  altogether.  Why  should  we  ?  What  wc 
see  here  of  this  world  is  but  an  expression  of  God's 
will,  so  to  speak— a  beautiful  earth  and  sky  and 
sea — beautiful  affections  and  sorrows,  wonderful 
changes  and  developments  of  creation,  suns  rising, 


£,cffer0  of  ^^acftemt.  ^/ 

stars  shining,  birds  singing,  clouds  and  shadows 
changing  and  fading,  people  loving  each  other,  smil- 
ing and  crying,  the  multiplied  phenomena  of  Nature, 
2nultiplied  in  fact  and  fancy,  in  Art  and  Science,  in 
every  way  that  a  man's  intellect  or  education  or  im- 
agination can  be  brought  to  bear. — And  who  is  to 
say  that  we  are  to  ignore  all  this,  or  not  value  them 
and  love  them,  because  there  is  another  unknown 
world  yet  to  come?  Why  that  unknown  future 
world  is  but  a  manifestation  of  God  Almighty's  will, 
and  a  development  of  Nature,  neither  more  nor  less 
than  this  in  which  we  are,  and  an  angel  glorified  or 
a  sparrow  on  a  gutter  are  equally  parts  of  His  crea- 
tion. The  light  upon  all  the  saints  in  Heaven  is  just 
as  much  and  no  more  God's  work,  as  the  sun  which 
shall  shine  to-morrow  upon  this  infinitesimal  speck 
of  creation,  and  under  which  I  shall  read,  please 
God,  a  letter  from  my  kindest  Lady  and  friend. 
About  my  future  state  I  don't  know  ;  I  leave  it  in 
the  disposal  of  the  awful  Father, — but  for  to-day  I 
thank  God  that  I  can  love  you,  and  that  you  yonder 
and  others  besides  are  thinking  of  me  with  a  tender 
regard.  Hallelujah  may  be  greater  in  degree  than 
this,  but  not  in  kind,  and  countless  ages  of  stars 
may  be  blazing  infinitely,  but  3'ou  and  I  have  a 
right  to  rejoice  and  believe  in  our  little  part  and  to 
trust  in  to-day  as  in  tomorrow.  God  bless  my  dear 
lady  and  her  husband,     I  hope  you  are  asleep  now, 


4-  feeffere  of  ^^acftem;?. 

and  I  must  go  too,  for  the  candles  are  just  winking 
out. 

TilurHday.  I  am  glad  to  see  among  tlie  new 
inspectors,  in  the  Gazette  in  this  morning's  papers, 
m}'  old  acquaintance  Longueville  Jones,  an  excellent, 
worthy,  lively,  accomplished  fellow,  whom  I  like  the 
better  because  he  flung  up  his  fellow  and  tutorship 
at  Cambridge  in  order  to  marry  on  nothing  a  year. 
We  worked  in  Galignani's  newspaper  for  ten  fx'ancs 
a  day,  very  cheerfully  ten  years  ago,  since  when  he 
has  been  a  schoolmaster,  taken  pupils  or  bid  for 
them,  and  battled  manfully  with  fortune.  "William 
will  be  sure  to  like  him,  I  think,  he  is  so  honest, 
and  cheerful.  I  liave  sent  off  my  letter  to  Lady 
Ashburton  tins  morning,  ending  with  some  pretty 
phrases  about  poor  old  C.  B.  whose  fate  affects  me 
very  much,  so  much  that  I  feel  as  if  I  were  making 
my  will  and  getting  ready  to  march  too.  Well 
ma'am,  I  have  as  good  a  right  to  presentiments  as 
you  have,  and  to  sickly  fancies  and  despondencies^ 
but  I  should  like  to  see  before  I  die,  and  think  of 
it  daily  more  and  more,  the  commencement  of  Jesus 
Christ's  christianism  in  the  world,  where  I  am  sure 
people  may  be  made  a  hundred  times  happier  than 
by  its  present  forms,  Judaism,  asceticism,  Bullarism. 
I  wonder  will  He  come  again  and  tell  it  us.  We  are 
taught  to  be  ashamed  of  our  best  feelings  all  our  life. 
I  don't  want  to  blubber  upon    everybody's  shoul- 


Eeffere  of  ^^odterag.  43 

clers  ;  but  to  have  a  good  will  for  all,  and  a  strong, 
very  strong  regard  for  a  few,  Avhicli  I  shall  not  be 
ashamed  to  own  to  them.  ...  It  is  near  iijDon 
three  o'clock,  and  I  am  getting  rather  anxious  about 
the  post  from  Southampton  via  London.  Why,  if 
it  doesn't  come  in,  you  won't  get  any  letter  to-mor- 
row, no,  nothing — and  I  made  so  sure.  Well,  I  will 
try  and  go  to  work,  it  is  only  one  more  little  drop. 
God  bless  you,  dear  lady.     .     .     . 

.  .  .  Friday.  I  have  had  a  good  morning's 
work  and  at  two  o'clock  comes  your  letter  ;  dear 
friend,  thank  you.  What  a  cowaixl  I  was,  I  will  go 
and  walk  and  be  happy  for  an  hour,  it  is  a  grand 
frosty  sunshine.  Tomorrow  morning  early  back  to 
Loudon. 

31  January,  1849 

Snip,  Dover. 
Just  before  going  away. 

How  long  is  it  since  I  have  written  to  you  in  my 
natural  handwriting  ?  .  .  .  I  am  so  far  on  my 
way  to  Paris,  Meurice's  Hotel,  Rue  de  Hi voli.  .  .  . 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  this  great,  I  may  say  de- 
cisive step,  when  I  came  to  see  you  on  Saturday, 
before  you  went  to  Hither  Green.  I  didn't  go  to 
the  Sterling,  as  it  was  my  last  day,  and  due  natural- 
ly to  the  family.  We  went  to  bed  at  half  past  nine 
o'clock.     To-day  I  went  round  on  a  circuit  of  visits, 


44  £cffer0  of  ^^ocftera^. 

including  Turpin  at  your  house.  Ifc  seems  as  if  I 
was  going  on  an  ever  so  long  journey.  Have  you 
any  presentiments  ?  I  know  some  people  who  have. 
Thank  3-ou  for  your  note  of  this  morning,  and  my 
dear  old  William  for  his  regard  for  me  ;  try  you  and 
conserve  the  same.  ,  .  .  There  is  a  beautiful 
night,  and  I  am  going  by  Calais.  Here,  with  a  step 
on  the  steaming  vessel, 

I  am,  aflectionately  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 

Meurice's  Hotel,  Rivoli  Street, 
Paris.  [Feb:  1849] 

If  you  please,  I  am  come  home  very  tired  and 
sleepy  from  the  Opera,  where  my  friend  Kothschild 
gave  me  a  place  in  his  box.  There  was  a  grand  bal- 
let of  which  I  could  not  understand  one  word,  that 
is  one  ^^a.s,  for  not  a  word  was  sjooken  ;  and  I  saw 
some  celebrities  in  the  place.  The  President,  M. 
Lamartinc,  in  a  Ijox  near  a  handsome  lady  ;  M.  Mar- 
rast,  in  a  box  near  a  handsome  lady  ;  there  was  one 
with  a  bouquet  of  lilies,  or  some  sort  of  white  flow- 
ers, so  enormous  that  it  looked  like  a  bouquet  in  a 
pantomine,  which  was  to  turn  into  something,  or 
out  of  which  a  beautiful  dancer  Avas  to  spring.  The 
house  was  crammed  with  well-dressed  folks,  and  is 
sumptuous  and  splendid  beyond  measure.  But  O  ! 
think  of  old  Lamartine  in  a  box  by  a  handsome  lady. 


feeffcrs  of  ^^ocftemi?.  ^5 

Not  any  harm  in  the  least,  that  I  know  of,  only  tliat 
the  most  venerable  and  grizzled  bearded  statesmen 
and  philosophers  find  time  from  their  business  and 
political  quandaries,  to  come  and  sigh  and  ogle  a 
little  at  the  side  of  ladies  in  boxes. 
'  I  anTundergoing  the  quarantine  of  family  dinners 
with  the  most  angelic  patience.  Yesterday  being 
the  first  day,  it  was  an  old  friend  and  leg  of  lamb. 
I  graciously  said  to  the  old  friend,  "  Why  the  deuce 
wouldn't  you  let  me  go  and  dine  at  a  restaurant, 
don't  you  suppose  I  have  leg  of  lamb  at  home  V " 
To-day  with  an  aunt  of  mine,  where  we  had  mock 
turtle  soup,  by  Heavens !  and  I  arranged  with  my 
other  aunt  for  another  dinner.  I  knew  how  it  would 
be  ;  it  must  be  ;  and  there's  my  cousin  to  come  off 
yet,  who  says,  "you  must  come  and  dine.  I  haven't 
a  soul,  but  will  give  you  a  good  Indian  dinner."  I 
will  make  a  paper  in  Punch  about  it,  and  exhale  my 
griefs  in  print.  I  will  tell  you  about  my  cousin 
when  I  get  home, — when  I  get  to  Portman  Street 
that  is.  .  .  .  Wliat  brought  me  to  this  i:)lace  ? 
Well  I  am  glad  I  came,  it  will  give  me  a  subject  for 
at  least  six  weeks  in  Punch,  of  which  I  was  getting 
so  weary  that  I  thought  I  must  have  done  with  it. 

Are  you  better  for  a  little  country  air  ?  Did  3'ou 
walk  in  that  cheerful  paddock  where  the  cows  are  ? 
And  did  you  have  clothes  enough  to  your  bed?  I 
shall  go  to  mine  now,  after  writing  this  witty  page, 


46  Ecffere  of  ^^ocftemj?. 

for  I  liavG  been  writing  and  spinning  about  all  day, 
and  am  very  tired  and  sleepy  if  you  please.  Boii 
Soir,  Madame.     .     .     . 

Saturday.  Though  there  is  no  use  in  writing, 
because  there  is  no  post,  but  que  voulez  vous,  Ma- 
dame? On  aime  d  dire  un petit  hovjour  d  ses  amis. 
I  feel  almost  used  to  the  place  already  and  begin  to 
be  interested  about  the  politics.  Some  say  there's 
a  revolution  ready  for  today.  The  town  is  crammed 
with  soldiers,  and  one  has  a  curious  feeling  of  inter- 
est and  excitement,  as  in  walking  about  on  ice  that 
is  rather  dangerous,  and  may  tumble  in  at  any  mo- 
ment. I  had  three  newspapers  for  my  breakfast, 
which  my  man,  (it  is  rather  grand  having  a  laquais  de 
place,  but  I  can't  do  without  him,  and  invent  all  sorts 
of  pretexts  to  employ  him)  bought  for  five  pence  of 
your  money.  The  mild  papers  say  we  have  escaped 
an  immense  danger,  a  formidable  plot  has  been 
crushed,  and  Paris  would  have  been  on  fire  and 
fury  but  for  the  timely  discovery.  The  Red  Eepub- 
licans  say,  "Plot!  no  such  thing,  the  infernal  ty- 
rants at  the  head  of  affaii's  wish  to  find  a  pretext 
for  persecuting  patriots,  and  the  good  and  the  brave 
are  shut  up  in  dungeons."  Plot  or  no  plot,  which 
is  it?  I  think  I  prefer  to  believe  that  there  has 
been  a  direful  conspiracy,  and  that  we  have  escaped 
a  tremendous  danger.  It  makes  one  feel  bravo 
somehow,  and  as  if  one  had  some  merit  in  overthrow- 


feeftere  of  ^^ocftera)?.  47 

ing  this  rascally  conspiracy.  I  am  going  to  the 
Chamber  directly.  The  secretary  at  the  Embassy 
got  me  a  ticket.  The  Embassy  is  wonderfully  civil  ; 
Lord  Normauby  is  my  dearest  friend,  he  is  going  to 
take  me  to  the  President, — very  likely  to  ask  me  to 
dinner.  You  would  have  thought  I  was  an  earl,  I 
was  received  with  so  much  of  empressemenl  by  the 
ambassador. 

I  hadn't  been  in  Paris  ten  minutes,  before  I  met 

ten  people  of  my  acquaintance,     ...    As  for 

Oh !  it  was  wonderfuL  We  have  not  met  for  five 
years  on  account  of  a  coolness,- — that  is  a  great  heat, 
— resulting  out  of  a  dispute  in  which  I  was  called 
to  be  umpire  and  gave  judgment  against  her  and 
her  husband  ;  but  we  have  met,  it  is  forgotten.  .  .  . 
Poor  soul,  she  i^ei-formed  beautifully.  "What, 
William,  not  the  least  changed,  just  the  same  as 
ever,  in  spite  of  all  your  fame  ?  " — Fame  be  hanged, 
thought  l,  pardonnez-moi  le  ??io^,— "just  the  same 
simple  creature."  Oh  !  what  a  hypocrite  I  felt.  I 
like  her  too  ;  but  she  poor,  poor  soul — well,  she  did 
her  comedy  exceedingly  well.  I  could  only  say, 
"My  dear,  you  have  grown  older,"  that  was  the 
only  bit  of  truth  that  passed,  and  she  didn't  like  it. 
Quand  vous  serez  bien  vieille,  and  I  say  to  you,  "my 
dear  you  are  grown  old  "  (only  I  shall  not  say  "my 
dear,"  but  something  much  more  distant  and  re- 
spectful), I  wonder  whether  you  will  like  it.     Now 


48  betters  of  ^^ocflctag. 

it  is  time  to  go  to  tlio  Chamber,  but  it  was  far  pleas- 
anter  to  sit  and  chatter  with  Madame. 

I  have  been  to  see  a  piece  of  a  piece  called  the 
Mystlres  de  Londres,  since  the  above,  and  most  tre- 
mendous mysteries  they  were  indeed.  It  appears 
that  there  lived  in  London,  three  or  four  years  ago, 
a  young  grandee  of  Spain  and  count  of  the  Empire, 
the  Marquis  of  Eio  Santo,  an  Irishman  by  birth, 
who  in  order  to  free  his  native  country  from  the 
intolerable  tyranny  of  England,  imagined  to  organ- 
ize an  extraordinary  conspiracy  of  the  rogues  and 
thieves  of  the  Metropolis,  with  whom  some  of  the 
principal  merchants,  jewellers  and  physicians  were 
concerned,  who  were  to  undermine  and  destroy 
somehow  the  infamous  British  power.  The  mer- 
chants were  to  forge  and  utter  bank-notes,  the  jew- 
ellers to  sell  sham  diamonds  to  the  aristocracy,  and 
so  ruin  them  ;  the  physicians  to  murder  suitable 
persons  by  their  artful  prescriptions,  and  the  whole 
realm  being  plunged  into  anarchy  by  their  manceu- 
vrcs,  Ireland  was  to  get  its  own  in  the  midst  of  the 
squabble.  This  astonishing  marquis  being  elected 
supreme  chief  of  a  secret  society  called  the  "  Gen- 
tlemen of  the  Night,"  had  his  spies  and  retainers 
among  the  very  highest  classes  of  society.  The  po- 
lice and  tlie  magistraturo  were  corrupted,  the  very 
beef-eaters  of  the  Queen  contaminated,  and  you  saw 
the  e\ddeuce  of  such  a  conspiracy  as  would  make 


Eetfere  of  t^ac^trai^,  49 

your  eyes  open  with  terror.  Who  knows,  nicadame, 
hut  perhaps  sonic  of  the  school  inspectors  them- 
selves were  bought  over,  and  a  Jesuitic  C k,  an 

auihitious  T ,  an   unscrupulous  B himself, 

may  have  been  seduced  to  mislead  our  youth,  and 
teach  our  very  babes  and  sucklings  a  precocious 
perverseness  ?  This  is  getting  to  be  so  very  like 
-^riut  that  I  shall  copy  it  very  likely,'  all  but  the' in- 
spector part,  for  a  periodical  with  which  I  am  con- 
nected. Well,  numbers  of  beautiful  women  were 
in  love  with  the  Marquis,  or  otherwise  subjugated 
by  him,  and  the  most  lovely  and  innocent  of  all,  was 
employed  to  go  to  St.  James'  on  a  drawing-room 
day,  and  steal  the  diamonds  of  Lady  Brompton,  the 
mistress  of  his  grace  Prince  Demetri  Tolstoi,  the 
Russian  ambassador,  who  had  lent  Lady  Brompton 
the  diamonds  to  sport  at  St.  James',  before  he  sent 
them  off  to  his  imperial  master  the  Emperor  of  Rus- 
sia, for  whom  the  trifles  in  question  were  purchased. 
Lady  Brompton  came  to  court  having  her  train  held 
up  by  her  jockey  ;  Susanna  came  to  court,  her  train 
likewise  carried  by  her  page,  one  or  both  of  them 
were  affidcs  of  the  association  of  the  "Gentlemen  of 
the  Night."  The  jockeys  were  changed,  and  Lady 
Brompton's  jewels  absolutely  taken  off  her  neck. 
So  great  was  the  rage  of  his  grace  Prince  Demetri 
Tolstoi,  that  he  threatened  war  should  be  declared 

1  He  did  reproduce  part  of  it  in  J'unc/l 
A 


50  £etfer0  cf  ^^ocftemg. 

by  his  emperor  unless  the  brilliants  were  restored. 
I  don't  know  what  supervened,  for  exhausted  nature 
would  bear  no  more.  But  you  .should  have  seen  the 
Court  of  St.  James',  the  beef-eaters,  the  Life  Guards, 
the  heralds  at  arms  in  their  tabards  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  the  ushers  announcing  the  great  folks, 
as  they  went  into  the  presence  of  the  great  sover- 
eign. Lady  Campbell,  the  Countess  of  Derby,  and 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  were  announced.  O  ! 
such  an  archbishop !  he  had  on  a  velvet  trencher 
caj:),  and  a  dress  something  like  our  real  and  vener- 
ated prelates',  and  a  rich  curling  wig,  and  he  stoj^ped 
and  blessed  the  people,  making  crucifieial  signs  on 
the  stairs.  The  various  lords  went  into  the  cham- 
ber in  red  robes  and  long  flowing  wigs.  The  won- 
der of  the  parody  was,  that  it  was  so  like  and  yet 
so  absurdly  unlike.  O'Connell  appeared,  saluted  as 
Daniel  by  the  Count  of  Kio  Santo,  and  announcing 
that  he  himself,  though  brise  par  la  lulte  with  the 
oppressors  of  his  country,  yet  strongly  reprobated 
anything  like  violent  measures  on  the  part  of  j\I.  do 
Rio  Santo  and  his  fellow-patriots.  The  band  played 
"God  safe  the  Quin"  in  the  most  delightful  absurd 
manner.  The  best  of  it  is  that  these  things,  ad- 
mirably as  they  tickled  me,  are  only  one  degree 
more  absurd  than  what  they  pretend  to  copy.  The 
Archbishop  ha<l  a  wig  07ily  the  other  day,  though 
not  quite  such  a  wig  as  this;  the  chiefs  of  the  police 


Eetfere  of  ^^ac^cxai^.  5/ 

c.ime  in  with  oilskin  hats,  policemen's  coats  quite 
correct,  and  white  tights  and  silk  stockings,  which 
made  me  laugh  so,  that  the  jDCople  in  the  stalls  next 
me  didn't  know  what  I  was  at !  But  the  parody 
was  in  fine  prodigious,  and  will  afford  matter  to  no 
end  of  penny-a-line  speculation.  .  .  .  I  sit  in 
my  little  snug  room  and  say  God  bless  you  and  Mv. 
Williams.  Here  is  near  four  pages  of  Penden- 
nis.     .     .     . 

April,  10th.  1849. 

Afy  Dear  Persons  : 

After  lying  in  bed  until  you  had  reached  Clifton, 
exceeding  melancholy  from  want  of  sleep,  (induced 
by  no  romantic  inward  feeling  but  by  other  causes 
much  more  material  and  vulgai',  viz.,  late  smoking, 
etc.,  previous  nights)  shall  I  tell  you  what  it  was  dis- 
sipated my  blue  devils?  As  I  was  going  toward 
London  the  postman  sto^jped  me  in  the  street  and 
asked  me  if  I  would  take  my  letters,  which  he  hand- 
ed to  me  : — one  was  an  opera-box  which  I  sent  off 
to  Mrs.  M.  for  to-morrow ;  and  one  was  a  letter 
from  an  attorney  demanding  instantly  £112  for 
that  abominable  L'ish  Railway  ;  and  in  presence  of 
this  real  calamity  all  the  sentimental  ones  vanished 
straight.  I  began  to  think  how  I  must  raise  the 
money,— how  I  must  go  to  work,  nor  be  shilly-shal- 
lying any  longer  ;  and  with  this  real  care  staring  me 


52  £,efferB  of  ^^ocfterap. 

in  the  face  I  began  to  forget  imaginary  grievances 
and  to  thiuk  about  going  to  work  immediately  ;  and 
how  for  the  next  3  months  I  must  screw  and  save  in 
order  to  pay  off  the  money.  And  this  is  the  Avay, 
M'am,  that  the  grim  duties  of  the  world  push  the 
soft  feelings  aside  ;  we've  no  time  to  be  listening  to 
tlieir  little  meek  petitions  and  tender  home  prattle 
in  presence  of  the  imperative  Duty  who  says  "  Come, 
come,  no  more  of  this  here, — get  to  work,  Mister" 
— and  so  we  go  and  join  the  working  gang,  behind 
which  Necessity  marches  cracking  his  whip.  This 
metaphor  has  not  been  worked  so  completely  as  it 
might  be,  but  it  means  that  I  am  resolved  to  go  to 
work  directly.  So  being  determined  on  this  I  went 
off  at  once  to  the  Star  and  Garter  at  Richmond  and 
dined  with  those  2  nice  women  and  their  husbands, 
viz,  the  Strutts  and  Romillys.  We  had  every  sort  of 
luxury  for  dinner,  and  afterwards  talked  about  Vanity 
Fair  and  Pendennis  almost  incessantly  (thougli  I  de- 
clare I  led  away  the  conversation  at  least  10  times, 
but  they  would  come  back)  so  that  the  evening  was 
uucommouly  pleasant.  Once,  twice,  thrice,  it  came 
into  my  head — I  wonder  what  those  people  at  Clifton 
are  doing ;  I  would  give  2/6  to  be  with  them  ;  but  in 
the  mean  while  it  must  be  confessed,  the  Star  and 
Garter  is  not  bad.  These  ladies  are  handsome  and 
good,  and  clever,  and  kind  ;  that  solicitor  general 
talks  with  great  pleasantness  ;  and  so  I  came  home 


£cffer6  of  ^^acfterag,  5i 

in  a  fly  ■witli  an  old  gcntlenian  who  knew  Sir  8. 
Romilly,  and  we  talked  of  the  dark  end  of  that  his- 
tory of  a  very  good  and  wise  man,  and  how  he  adored 
his  wife  (it  was  her  death  which  caused  his  suicide), 
and  how  his  son  was  equally  attached  to  his  own,  of 
whose  affection  for  her  husband  my  informer  gave 
many  pretty  instances.  This  conversation  brought 
me  to  Kensington,  where  after  thinking  about  the 
£112  a  little,  and  a  little  more  about  some  friends 
of  mine  whom  I  pray  God  to  make  happy,  I  fell  into 
a  great  big  sleep — from  which  I  Avake  at  this  pres- 
ent 8  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  say  Bon  jour,  Mad- 
ame. Where  do  you  think  this  is  wrote  from  ? 
From  an  attorney's  office,  Old  Jewry.  The  Lord 
Ma^'or,  the  Sheriffs,  their  coaches  and  footmen,  in 
gold  and  silk  stockings,  have  just  passed  in  a  splen- 
did procession  through  the  mud  and  pouring  rain. 
I  have  been  to  the  bankers  to  see  how  mucli  money 
I  have  got.  I  have  got  £120  ;  I  owe  £112  ;  from 
£120  take  £112,  leaves  8  for  the  rest  of  the  month. 
Isn't  that  pleasant?  Well,  but  I  know  how  to  raise 
some  ; — the  bankers  say  I  may  over-draw.  Things 
isn't  so  bad. 

But  now,  (this  is  from  the  Garrick  Club)  now  I 
say  for  the  wonderful  wonder  of  wonders.  There  is 
a  chance  for  Mr.  Williams  such  as  he  little  looked 
for.  EMMA  is  free.  The  great  CatastroiDhe  has 
happened — last  night  she  and  her  mother  fled  from 


34  feeffere  of  it^acftemp. 

the  infamous  R  and  took  refuge  at  Mrs.  Procter's 
where  they  had  Adelaide's  and  Agnes'  beds — who 
went  and  slept  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Goldsmid  next 
door.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  P.  called  at  Kensington  at  11 
o'clock  and  brought  the  news. '  R.  had  treated  his 
wife  infamously  ;  K.  had  assailed  her  with  the  most 
brutal  language  and  outrages  ; — that  innocent  wom- 
an Madame  G ,  poor  thing,  who  meddled  with 

nothing  and  remained  all  day  in  her  own  gar- 
ret so  as  to  give  no  trouble,  was  flung  out  of  the 
house  by  him — indeed  only  stayed  in  order  to  pro- 
tect her  daughter's  life.  The  brute  refused  to  allow 
the  famous  picture  to  be  exhibited — in  fact  is  a  mad- 
man and  a  ruffian.  Procter  and  I  went  off  to  make 
peace,  and  having  heard  R's  story,  I  believe  that  he 
lias  been  more  wronged  than  they. 

The  mother  in-law  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  mis- 
chief. It  was  she  Avho  made  the  girl  marry  K.,  and, 
the  marriage  made,  she  declined  leaving  her  daugh- 
ter ;  in  fact,  the  poor  devil,  who  has  a  bad  temjier, 
a  foolish  head — an  immense  vanity — has  been  vic- 
timised by  the  women  and  I  pity  him  a  great  deal 
more  than  them.  O !  what  a  comedy  it  would 
make !  but  the  separation  I  suppose  is  final,  and  it 

'  Mrs.  Procter,  the  wife  of  the  well-known  poet,  Barry  Cornwall, — herself 
a  most  accompliHhcd  woman. — Kven  now  at  84  years  of  age  she  retains  the 
brilliant  powers  of  conversation  for  which  she  was  always  celebrated.  She 
was  always  a  faithful  friend  to  Mr.  Thackeray,  who  had  a  sincere  regard 
for  her.  Mrs.  Procter  was  the  mother  of  Adelaide,  who  so  largely  inherited 
her  father's  poetic  powers. 


£eftcr6  of  Z^adkrai^,  ^^ 

will  be  best  for  both  parties.     It  will  end  no  doubt 

in  his  having-  to  pay  a  4tli  of  his  income  for  the 

pleasure  of  being-  a  month  married  to  her,  and  she 

will  be  an  angelic  mart3'r,  &c.     I  wonder  whether 

you  will  give  me  a  luncheon  on  Thursda}'.     I  might 

sto})  for  2  hours  on  my  way  to  Taunton  and  make 

you  my  hand-shake.     Tliis  would  be  very  nice.     I 

thought  of  writing  to  Mrs.  Elton  and   ofl'ering  m}'- 

sclf,  but  I  should  like  first  to  liave  the  approval  of 

Mr.  Williams,  for  after  all,  I  am  not  an  indifferent 

person  but  claim  to  rank  as  the  Alft.  brother  of 

both  of  you. 

W.  M.  T. 

FRAGMENT. 

[April,  1849] 

Yesterday's  wasn't  a  letter,  you  know,  ma'am  ; 
and  I  am  so  tired  now  of  penmanship,  that  I  don't 
think  I  shall  be  able  to  get  through  one.  I  wish 
you  were  on  the  sofa  in  Portraan  Street,  and  that  I 
could  go  and  lie  down  on  the  opposite  one  and  fall 
asleep.  Isn't  that  a  polite  wish  ?  Well,  I  am  .so 
beat  that  I  ought  to  go  to  bed,  and  not  inflict  njy 
yawns  upon  anyone ;  but  I  can't  begin  snoring  yet. 
I  am  waiting  at  the  Club,  till  the  printer's  boy  brings 
the  proofs  of  No.  7,"  Avhich  is  all  done  ;  there  are 
two  new  women  in  it,  not  like  anybody   that  you 

1  PelldenIli^■. 


5<5  Eetfere  of  ^^cfterap. 

know  or  I  know  ;  your  favourite  Major  appears 
rather  in  an  amiable  liglit,  I  don't  know  whether  it 
is  good  or  l)ad.  The  latter  probably.  Well,  it  is 
done,  that's  a  comfort.     .     . 

I  am  going  to  dine  with  Lady  Davy  again,  but 
Friday  shall  be  a  happy  Friday  for  me,  and  on  Sat- 
urday, when  you  go  to  Oxbridge,  I  shall  console 
myself  by  a  grand  dinner  at  the  Royal  Academy,  if 
you  please,  to  which  they  have  invited  me,  on  a 
great  cai'd  like  a  tea-tray.  That's  a  great  honour, 
none  but  bishops,  purchasers,  and  other  big-wigs 
are  asked.  I  daresay  I  shall  have  to  make  an  im- 
promptu speech.  Sliall  I  come  to  rehearse  it  to 
you  on  Friday?  I  was  going  to  send  you  a  letter 
t'other  day  from  a  sculptor  who  M^ants  to  make  my 
bust ;  think  of  that !     .     .     . 

Here  is  wonderful  Spring  weather  come,  and  the 
leaves  are  sprouting  and  all  the  birds  chirping  melo- 
jo\'ously. 

I  daresay  you  are  driving  by  Severn's  Shore,  now  ; 
then  3'ou  will  listen  after  dinner  to  Captain  Budd  on 
the  German  flute  ;  then  I  daresay  you  Avill  sing, 
after  a  great  deal  of  blushing  and  hesitation.  Is 
]\Irs.  Tidy  jealous  of  you  ?  I  daresay  she  thinks  you 
are  overrated,  and  wonders  what  peoj^le  sec  in  you. 
So  do  L     .     .     . 

Tomorrow  me  and  Annie  and  3Iinnie  are  going 
to  buy  a  new  gownd  for  Granny,  who  wants  it  very 


feefferg  of  ^^ocftcmp.  57 

much.  Those  old  folks  project  a  tour  to  Switzer- 
land in  the  Summer,  did  I  tell  you  ?  And  my  moth- 
er cannot  part  with  the  children,  who  must  go  too. 
Where  shall  I  go  ?     .     .     . 

Here  comes  the  proof ; — shall  I  send  this  letter 
now  or  wait  till  tomorrow,  and  have  something  to 
say?  perhaps  I  shall  see  William  tonight.  I  am 
going  to  Lady  Lovelace's  drum  in  Cumberland 
Place,  hard-by  Portmau  Street. 

No,  I  didn't  go,  but  came  home  and  fell  asleep 
after  dinner,  from  nine  o'clock  till  now,  wdiich  it  is 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  which  I  am  writing  in 
bed.  You  are  very  likely  looking  at  the  elms  out 
of  window  by  this  time;  are  they  green  yet?  Our 
medlar  tree  is.  I  Avas  to  have  gone  to  the  old  Miss 
Berrys'  too  last  night ;  they  were  delighted  at  the 
allusion  in  Fimch  to  them,  in  the  same  number  in 
wliich  you  appear  mending  waistcoats.  But  Lord 
what  a  much  better  thing  going  to  bed  was !  and 
No.  7  completed  with  great  throes  and  disquiet, 
only  yesterday — seems  to  me  ever  so  long  ago — such 
a  big  sleep  have  I  had  !     .     .     . 

Adelaide  Procter  would  hardly  shake  hands  with 

me  because  of  my  cowardly  conduct  in  the  E 

aftair,  and  she  told  me  that  I  hadn't  been  to  call 
there  since  the  28th  March  last.  They  keep  a  jour- 
nal of  visitors  ;  fancy  that !     I  heard  the  R story 


^8  fcettere  of  ^^odierag. 

from  the  G herself  a,ud  the  mother,  and  can 

only  make  out  now  that  the  husband  is  mad  and 
odious.  What  they  are  to  do  is  the  difficulty ;  he 
refuses  to  allow  her  a  shilling  ;  her  pictui'e  has  been 
rejected  at  the  Academy,  and  why  I  can't  see,  for 
there's  no  English  academician's  who  could  equal 
it,  and  she  must  paint  to  live.  I  shall  give  her  my 
mother  to  do,  I  think.  She  looked  exceedingly 
handsome  and  interesting  the  other  day  ;  pale  and 
grief -stricken,  with  her  enormous  hair  twirled  round 
her  head — and  yet,  and  yet !  Will  you  kiss  those 
little  maids  for  me,  I  should  like  to  hear  their  j)rat- 
tle  through  the  door.  I  am  going  to  kill  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis  presently,  and  have  her  ill  in  this  number. 
Minnie  says,  "O!  papa,  do  make  her  well  again; 
she  can  have  a  regular  doctor  and  be  almost  dead, 
and  then  will  come  a  homeopathic  physician  who 
will  make  her  well  you  know."  It  is  very  pretty  to 
see  her  with  her  grandmother.  Let  us  jumj)  up 
now  and  go  to  breakfast  with  the  children. 

June  12,  1S49. 

My  dear  Lady : 

I  send  a  hasty  line  to  say  that  the  good  old  aunt 
is  still  here,  and  was  very  glad  to  see  me  and  an- 
other nephew  of  liers  who  came  by  the  same  train. 
It's  a  great  comfort  to  my  mother  and  to  her,  that 
my  mother  should  be  with  her  at  this  last  day  ;  and 


feetfers  of  ^^ocftem^.  59 

she  is  prei^aring  to  go  out  of  the  world,  in  which 
she  has  been  living  very  virtuously  for  more  than 
eighty  years,  as  calmly  and  haj^tpily  as  may  be.  I 
don't  know  how  long  she  may  remain,  but  my  duty 
will  be  to  stay  on  I  suppose,  until  the  end,  whicli 
the  doctor  says  is  very  near ;  though  to  see  her  in 
her  bed,  cheerful  and  talking,  one  would  fancy  that 
her  summons  is  not  so  near  as  those  who  are  about 
her  imagine.  So  I  shall  not  see  London  or  my  dear 
friends  in  it  for  a  few  days  very  likely.  Meanwhile 
will  you  write  me  a  line  here  to  tell  me  that  you  are 
easier  of  your  pains,  and  just  to  give  a  comfort  to 
your  old  brother  Makepeace. 

I  suppose  I  shall  do  a  great  deal  of  my  month's 
work  here.  I  have  got  a  comfortable  room  at  a  lit- 
tle snug  country  inn,  such  as  William  would  like. 
I  am  always  thinking  about  going  to  see  Mrs.  Fan- 
shawe  at  Southampton,  about  No.  9  of  Pendenniii, 
and  about  all  sorts  of  things.  I  went  to  see  Mrs. 
Procter,  to  the  City,  and  to  do  my  business  a7id  pay 
my  horrid  railroad  money.  The  banker's  clerk 
stopped  mo  and  said,  "I  beg  your  pardon.  Sir,  but 
will  you,  if  you  please,  tell  me  the  meaning  of  '  ees- 
thetics,'  "  which  I  was  very  much  puzzled  to  tell — 
and  here  comes  the  boy  to  say  that  the  note  must 
go  this  instant  to  save  the  post,  and  so  God  bless 
Jane  my  sister  and  William  my  brother. 

Wi'itten  from  the  Eoyal  oak,  Fareham. 


6o  £cffer0  of  it^f^cf^^^t*^!?. 

From  the  old  shop,  21. 
[  1849  ] 

Is  it  pouring  with  rain  at  Park  Lodge,  and 
the  most  dismal,  wretched,  cat  and  dog  day  ever 
seen  ?  O  !  it's  gloomy  at  13  Young  Street !  I  have 
been  labouring  all  day — drawing  that  is,  and  doing 
my  plates,  till  my  &s  are  ready  to  drop  oif  for  weari- 
ness. But  they  must  not  stop  for  yet  a  little  while, 
and  until  I  have  said  how  do  you  do  to  my  dear  lady 
and  the  young  folks  at  Southampton.  I  hardly  had 
time  to  know  I  was  gone,  and  that  happy  fortnight 
was  over,  till  this  morning.!    At  the  train,  whom  do 

you  think  I  found  ?     IMiss  G who  says  she  is 

Blanche  Amory,  and  I  think  she  is  Blanche  Amory ; 
amiable  at  times,  amusing,  clever  and  depraved. 
We  talked  and  porsiflated  all  tlie  way  to  London, 
and  the  id(!a  of  her  will  help  mo  to  a  good  chap- 
ter, in  which  I  will  make  Pendcnnis  and  Blanche 
play  at  being  in  love,  such  a  wicked  false  hum- 
buf^ging  London  love,  as  two  UaHG  London  peo- 
ple might  act,  and  half  deceive  themselves  that  they 
were  in  earnest.  That  will  complete  the  cycle  of 
Mr.  Pen's  worldly  experiences,  and  then  we  will 
make,  or  try  and  make,  a  good  man  of  him.  O  ! 
me,  we  are  wicked  worldlings  most  of  us,  may  God 
better  us  and  cleanse  us  !   '  / 

I  wonder  whether  ever  again,  I  shall  have  such  a 


£effere  of  ^^(K^cxai^.  6i 

liajipy  i)cacoful  fortnight  as  that  last !  How  sun- 
shiny tliG  landscape  remains  in  luy  niinJ,  I  hope  for 
always  ;  and  the  smiles  of  dear  children.  ...  I 
can  hardly  see  as  I  write  for  the  eye-water,  but  ifc 
isn't  with  grief,  but  for  the  natural  pathos  of  the 
thing.  How  happy  your  dear  regard  makes  me, 
how  it  takes  off  the  solitude  and  cases  it ;  may  it 
continue,  pray  God,  till  your  head  is  white  as  mine, 
and  our  children  have  children  of  their  own.  In- 
stead of  being  unhappy  because  that  delightful 
holiday  is  over  or  all  but  over,  I  intend  that  the 
thoughts  of  it  should  serve  to  malce  me  only  the 
more  cheerful  and  help  me,  please  God,  to  do  my 
duty  better.  All  such  pleasures  ought  to  brace  and 
strengthen  one  against  work  days,  and  lo,  here  they 
are.  I  hope  yo\x  will  be  immensely  punctual  at 
breakfast  and  dinner,  and  do  all  your  business  of 
life  with  cheerfulness  and  briskness,  after  the  exam- 
ple of  holy  Philip  iScri,  whom  you  wot  of ;  that  is 
your  duty  Madame,  and  mine  is  to  "pursue  my  high 
calling ; "  and  go  I  go  back  to  it  with  a  full  grateful 
heart,  and  say  God  bless  all.  If  it  hadn't  been  pour- 
ing-o'-raiu  so,  I  think  I  should  have  gone  off  to  His 
Beverence  at  Brighton  ;  so  I  send  him  my  very  best 
regards,  and  a  whole  box  full  of  kisses  to  the  chil- 
dren.   Farewell. 


62  &efter0  of  ^^ocftemi?. 

[TO  MR.  BROOKFIELDJ 

25  April  1849. 

My  dear  Vieiix  : 

Will  ye  dine  with  me  on  Friday  at  tlie  G  ?     My 

■work  will  be  just  over  on  tbat  day,  and  bedad,  we'll 

make  a  night  of  it,  and  go  to  the  j^lay.     On  Thursday 

I  shall  dine  here  and  Sunday  most  imMhj,  and  shall 

we  go  to  Richmond  on  Sunday  ?     Make  your  game 

and  send  me  word. 

Ever  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 

P.  S.  Having  occasion  to  write  to  a  man  in 
Bloomsbury  Place,  and  to  Lady  Davy,  I  mixed  up 
the  addresses  and  am  too  mean  to  throw  away  the 
envelope,  so  give  you  the  benefit  of  the  same. 

[1849] 

Monday. 

]\Iy  letter  to-day,  dear  lady,  must  needs  be  a  very 
short  one,  for  the  post  goes  in  half  an  hour,  and 
I've  been  occupied  all  day  with  my  own  business 
and  other  people's.  At  three  o'clock,  just  as  I  was 
in  full  work  comes  a  letter  from  a  pnAef/ee  of  my 
mother's,  a  certain  Madame  de  B.  informing  me 
that  she,  Madame  de  B.,  had  it  in  view  to  commit 
suicide  immediately,  unless  she  could  be  in  some 


£cfter0  of  ^^ocftcrag.  6^ 

measure  relieved  (or  releived,  wliich  is  it?)  from  lier 
present  difficulties.  80  I  have  had  to  post  off  to 
this  Madame  de  B.,  whom  I  expected  to  Ihid  starv- 
ing, and  instead  met  a  woman  a  great  deal  fatter 
than  the  most  full-fed  person  need  be,  and  having 
just  had  a  good  dinner  ;  but  that  didn't  prevent  her, 
the  confounded  old  fiend,  from  abusing  the  woman 
who  fed  her  and  was  good  to  her,  from  spoiling  the 
half  of  a  da}''s  work  for  me,  and  taking  me  of  a  fool's 
errand.  I  was  quite  angry,  instead  of  a  corpse  jier- 
haps,  to  find  a  fat  and  voluble  person  who  had  no 
more  idea  of  hanging  herself  to  the  bed-post  than 
you  or  I  have.  However,  I  got  a  character  in  mak- 
ing Madame  de  B's  aquaintance,  and  some  day  she 
will  turn  up  in  that  inevitable  repertory  of  all  one's 
thoughts  and  experiences  que  vous  savez. 

Thence,  as  it  was  near,  I  went  to  see  a  sick  poet- 
ess, who  is  pining  away  for  love  of  S M , 

that  3'ou  have  heard  of,  and  who  literally  has  been 
brouglit  near  to  the  grave  by  that  amorous  malady. 
She  is  very  interesting  somehow,  ghastly  pale  and 
thin,  recumbent  on  a  sofa,  and  speaking  scarcely 
above  her  breath.  I  wonder  though  after  all,  was  it 
the  love,  or  was  it  the  bronchitis,  or  was  it  the  chest 
or  the  spiue  that  was  affected?  All  I  know  is  that 
Don  Savillc  may  have  made  love  to  her  once,  but 
has  tried  his  hand  in  other  (piarters  since,  and  you 
know  one  doesn't  think  the  worse  of  a  man  of  hou- 


^4  feetfcre  of  it^fiercii^. 

our  for  cheating  in  affairs  of  the  heart.  The  num- 
bers that  I  myself  have — fiddledee,  this  is  nonsense. 
The  Reform  banquet  was  very  splendid  and  dull 
enough.  A  bad  dinner  and  bad  wine,  and  pretty 
fair  speaking  ;  my  friend  fat  James  being  among  not 
the  least  best  of  the  speakers.  They  all  speak  in  a 
kind  of  sing-song  or  chant,  without  which  I  suppose 
it  is  impossible  for  the  oi'ator  nowadays  to  pitch  his 
sentences,  and  Madam,  you  are  aware  that  the  Ro- 
mans had  a  pipe  when  they  spoke  ;  not  a  pipe  such 
as  your  husband  uses,  but  a  pitch-inpe.  I  wanted 
to  have  gone  to  smoke  a  last  calumet  at  poor  dear 
old  Portman  Street,  but  our  si^eechifiers  did  not 
stop  till  12.30  and  not  tlien  ;  but  the  best  of  them 
had  fired  off  by  that  time  and  I  came  off.  Yester- 
day, after  devoting  the  morning  to  composition,  I 
went  and  called  on  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Brookfield,  whom 
I  found  very  busy  packing  up  and  wishing  me  at 
Jericho,  so  I  went  to  the  Miss  Leslies'  and  Captn. 
Morgan,  the  American  Captain  ;  and  then  to  dine 
at  Hampstead,  W'herc  the  good  natured  folks  took 
in  me  and  the  two  young  ones.  Finally,  in  the 
evening  to  Lady  Tcnnent's,  where  I  have  been  most 
remiss  in  visit-paying,  for  I  like  her,  and  she  was  a 
kind  old  friend  to  me.  To-day  I  am  going  to  dine 
with  the  Dowager  Duchess  of  Bedford,  afterwards 
to  Mrs.  Procter's,  afterwards  to  Lady  Granville's. 
Here  you  have  your  humble  servant's  journal,  and 


£etter0  of  ^^ocfterag.  65 

3'ou  sec  his  time  is  pretty  -well  occupied.     I  have 

Lad  n  good  deal  of  the  children  too,  and  am  getting 

on  apace  with  my  unn:ibcr,  though  I  don't  like  it. 

Shall  I  send  you  some  of  it  ?     No,  I  won't,  though 

if  I  do  a  very  good  piece  indeed,  perhaps  I  may.     I 

think  I  shall  go   to  Brighton  ;  I  think  you  will  be 

away  six  weeks  at  least  ;  and  I  hope   to  hear  that 

my  dear  lady  is  well  and  that  she  rcmemljcrs  her 

affectionate  old  friend 

IVIakepeack. 

1849. 
[  TO  Jm.  BROOKFIELD  ] 

My  dear  Vieiix : 

A  long  walk  and  stroll  in  Richmond  Park  yester- 
day, a  blue  followed  by  a  black  this  morning,  have 
left  me  ctJmer,  exhausted,  but  melancholy.  I  shall 
dine  at  the  Garrick  at  seven  o'clock  or  so,  and  go 
to  the  Lyceum  aftei'wards.  Come  into  town  if  you 
get  this  in  time  and  let  us  go.     ,     . 

Get  David  Copperfield,  by  Jingo  it's  beautiful  ;  it 
beats  the  yellow  chap  of  this  month  hollow. 

w.  :\i.  T. 

Will  you  send  me  two  cigars  per  bearer  ?  I  am 
working  with  three  pipe-smoking  Frenchmen,  and 
I  can't  smoke  their  abominations,  and  I  hope  Mad- 
ame is  pretty  well  after  her  triumphant  dibut  last 
night. 

5 


66  £etfcr6  of  tCSfC^^xcK^, 

[ 1849  ] 

Reform  Club,  Tuesday — 

My  dear  Lidy : 

I  write  only  a  word  au<l  iu  the  greatest  hurry  to 
say  I  am  very  well  iu  health.  I've  been  at  work, 
and  have  written  somewhat  and  done  my  two  plates, 
which  only  took  two  hours  ;  and  now  that  they're 
done,  I  feel  that  I  want  so  to  come  back  to  Ryde,  I 
must  get  a  rope  or  a  chain  to  bind  myself  down  to 
my  desk  here.'  All  the  world  is  out  of  town — iMrs. 
Procter  not  at  home,  perhaj^s  to  my  visit, — dear 
kind  Kate  Perry  whom  indeed  I  like  with  all  my 
heart  just  packing  up  to  go  to  Brighton.  My  Ches- 
terfield loves  flown  away  to  Tunbridge  Wells,  and 
so  I  am  alone  and  miss  you.  I  sent  your  package 
ofT  to  Hai-ry  this  morning.  The  lucky  rogue  !  I 
suppose  he  will  see  Madam  and  all  those  kind  Ryde 
folks.  Tell  them  if  you  please  how  very  grateful  I 
am  to  them  for  their  goodnature.  I  can't  help  fan- 
cying them  relations  rather  than  friends. 

I  got  some  dinner  ;  at  10.}  o'clock  I  drank  to  the 
health  of  Madame  Ma  bonne  soeur; — I  hadn't  the 
courage  to  go  home  till  past  midnight,  when  all  the 
servants  got  out  of  bed  to  let  me  in.  There  was 
such  a  heap  of  letters  !  I  send  you  a  couple  which 
may  amuse  you.     Send  me  Colonel  Ferguson's  back, 

•  Mr.  Thackeray  had  been  Bixrnding  a  few  days  at  Ryde  with  my  brother 
and  his  wife,  where  I  was  Btaying. 


Los  Atigeres  Cat 

£effer6  of  ^^fteraj?.  67 

as  I  must  answer  him  ;  but  I  don't  think  I  shall  be 
able  to  get  away  in  August  to  Scotland.  Who  can 
the  excoriated  female  be  who  imparts  her  anguish  to 
me  ?  what  raw  wound  has  the  whip  of  the  satirist 
been  touching  ?  As  I  was  sitting  with  my  French- 
men at  3  o'clock,  I  thought  to  myself  O  Lor !  Mr, 
Makepeace,  how  much  better  you  were  off  yester- 
day ! 

Good  hjo  dear  lady,  God  bless  every  kind  pei'son 
of  all  those  who  love  you. — I  feel  here,  you  must 
know,  just  as  I  used  five  and  twenty  years  ago  at 
school,  the  day  after  coming  back  from  the  holidays. 
If  you  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  pray  write  ;  if  you 
have  something,  of  course  you  will.  Good  bye, 
shake  hands,  I  am  always  my  dear  lady's  sincere 

W.  M.  T. 

[1849] 

Last  night  was  a  dinner  at  Spencer  Cowper's,  the 
man  who  used  to  be  called  the  fortunate  youth  some 
few  years  back,  when  £10,000,  or  perhaps  £20,000  a 
year,  was  suddenly  left  him  by  a  distant  relative, 
and  when  he  was  without  a  guinea  in  the  world.  It 
was  a  Sybai'itic  repast,  in  a  magnificent  apartment, 
and  we  wei'e  all  of  us  young  voluptuaries  of  fashion. 
There  were  portraits  of  Louis  Quatorze  ladies  round 
the  room  (I  was  going  to  say  salle  d  manger,  but 
room   after  all  is  as  good  a  word).      We  sat  in  the 


68  fcetfere  of  ^^ocftera^. 

comfortablcst  arm  chairs,  and  valets  went  round 
every  instant  filling  our  glasses  with  the  most  ex- 
quisite liquors.  The  glasses  were  as  big  as  at  King- 
lake's  dinner — do  yon  remember  Kiuglake's  feast, 
Ma'am?  Then  we  adjourned  into  wadded  drawing 
I'ooms,  all  over  sofas  and  lighted  with  a  hundred 
candles,  where  smoking  was  practised,  and  we  en- 
joyed a  pleasant  and  lively  conversation,  carried  on 
in  the  2  languages  of  which  we  young  dogs  are  per- 
fect masters.  As  I  came  away  at  midnight  I  saw 
C.'s  carriage  lamps  blazing  in  the  courtyard,  keep- 
ing watch  until  the  fortunate  youth  should  come  out 
to  pay  a  visit  to  some  Becky  no  doubt.  The  young 
men  were  clever,  very  frank  and  gentlemenlike ; 
one,  rather  well-read  ;  quite  as  pleasant  companions 
as  one  deserves  to  meet,  and  as  for  your  humble 
servant,  he  saw  a  chapter  or  two  of  Pendennis  in 
some  of  them. 

I  am  going  with  I\I.  to-da}',  to  sec  Alexis  the  son- 
nambulist.  She  came  yesterday'  evening  and  talked 
to  me  for  two  hours  before  dinner.  I  astonished 
her  by  finding  out  her  secrets  by  some  of  those 
hit3  que  vous  saoez — Look,  here  is  a  bit  of  paper 
with  a  note  to  her  actually  commenced  in  reply  to 
my  dearest  William, — but  I  couldn't  get  out  my 
dearest  M.  in  return,  and  stopped  at  "My" — .  But 
I  like  her  better  than  I  did, — and  begin  to  make  al- 
lowances for  a  woman  of  great  talents  married  to  a 


stujiid,  generous,  olistinato,  devoted  heavy  dragoon, 
thirty  years  her  senior.  My  dear  old  mother  with  her 
imperial  manner  tried  to  take  the  command  of  both 
of  them,  and  was  always  anxious  to  make  them  under- 
stand that  I  was  the  divinest  creature  in  the  world, 
whose  shoe-strings  neither  of  them  was  fit  to  tie. 
Hence  bickerings,  hatreds,  secret  jealousies  and 
open  revolt,  and  I  can  fancy  them  both  worked  up 
to  a  pitch  of  hatred  of  me,  that  my  success  in  life 
must  have  rendered  only  more  bitter. 

But  about  ^Uexis — this  wonder  of  wonders  reads 
letters  and  tells  you  their  contents  and  the  names 
of  their  authors  without  even  thinking  of  opening 
the  seal ;  and  I  want  you  very  much,  if  you  please, 
and  instantly  on  receipt  of  this  to  send  me  a  bit  of 
your  -hair  that  I  may  have  a  consultation  on  it. 
]Mind  you,  I  don't  want  it  for  m^'self  ;  I  pledge  you 
m}'  word  I'll  burn  it,  or  give  you  back  every  single 
hair.  .  .  .  but  do  if  you  please,  mum,  gratify 
my  curiosity  in  this  matter  and  consult  the  sooth- 
sayer regarding  you.  M.  showed  him  letters,  and 
vows  he  is  right  in  every  particular.  And  as  I 
sha'n't  be  very  long  here  I  propose  by  return  of 
post,  for  this  favour. 

Are  you  going  to  dine  at  Lansdowne  House  on 
Saturday  ?  The  j^ost  is  come  in  and  brought  me  an 
invitation,  and  a  letter  from  my  Ma,  and  my  daugh- 
ters, but  none  from  my  sister.     Are  you  ill  again. 


70  betters  of  ?!:^atfterap. 

dear  lad}-  ?  Don't  be  ill,  God  bless  j'ou — good  bye. 
I  shall  write  again  if  you  please,  but  I  sba'n't  be 
long  before  I  come.  Dou't  be  ill,  I  am  afraid  you 
are.  You  hav'u't  been  to  Kensingtou.  My  love  to 
Mr.  Williams,  fai'ewell,  and  write  tomorrow. 


1849. 
I  [TO  -MR.  BROOKFIELD] 

My  dear  yieiix  : 

If  you  come  home  in  any  decent  time  I  wish  you 
would  go  off  to  poor  Mrs.  Crowe  at  Humpstead. '  A 
letter  has  just  come,  from  Eugenie,  who  describes  the 
poor  lady  as  low,  wretched,  and  hysterical — she  may 
drop.  Now  a  word  or  two  of  kindness  from  a  black 
coat  might  make  all  the  difference  to  her,  and  who 
so  able  to  administer  as  your  reverence  ?  I  am  go- 
ing out  myself  to  laugh,  talk  and  to  the  best  of  my 
ability,  soothe  and  cheer  her  ;  but  the  professional 
man  is  the  best,  depend  upon  it,  and  I  wish  you 
would  stretch  a  point  in  order  to  see  her. 

Yours  till  this  evening. 

•  Mrs.  Crowe,  mother  of  Eyre  Crowe,  the  well-known  artiHt,  who  went 
with  Mr.  Thackeray  u>  America  on  his  flrbt  tour  there,  and  who  was  always 
one  of  his  most  faithful  frieada. 


£cttcr6  of  ^^krag.  7/ 

[1849] 
[  TO  MR.  BROOKFIELD  ] 

My  dear  Fieux : 

I  wisli  you  "svould  go  and  call  upon  Lady  Ashbur- 
tou.  Twice  Asbburton  Las  told  uie  that  sbe  wants 
to  make  your  acquaintance,  and  twice  remarked 
that  it  would  bo  but  an  act  of  jDoliteness  in  you  to 
call  on  a  lady  in  distress,  who  wants  your  services. 
Both  times  I  have  said  that  you  are  uncommonly 
proud  and  shy,  and  last  night  told  him  he  had 
best  call  on  you,  which  he  said  he  should  hasten  to 
do.  But  surely  you  might  stretch  a  leg  over  the 
barrier  when  there's  a  lady  actually  beckoning  to 
you  to  come  over,  and  such  an  uncommonly  good 
dinner  laid  on  the  other  side.  There  was  a  vacant 
place  yesterday,  as  you  might  have  had,  and  such  a 
company  of  jolly  dogs,  St.  Davids,  Hallam  sen'r  and 
ever  so  many  more  of  our  set.  Do  come  if  you  can, 
and  believe  me  to  be  yours, 

A.  PENDEirais,  Major  H.P. 

[TO  MR.  BROOKFIELD] 

Monday. 

My  dear  l^ieiix  : 

A.  Sterling '  dines  with  mc  at  the  Garrick  at  seven 
on  Friday ;  I  hojDe  you  will  come  too.     And  on  Fri- 

'  A.  sterling,  brother  to  John  Sterling  of  whom  Carlyle  wrote  tlie  life. 


72  fecffers  of  Z^c^cf^tvai^. 

day  the  21st.  Juno,  Mr.  Thackeray  requests  the 
pleasure  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brookfield's  and  Mr.  Henry 
Hallaui's  company  at  dinner  at  7.30  to  meet  Sir 
Alexander  and  Lady  Duff  Gordon,  Sir  Henry  and 
Lady  De  Bathe  &c.  &c.  I  hope  you  will  both  come 
to  this,  please  ;  you  ought  to  acknowledge  the  kind- 
ness of  the  key,'  and  those  kind  Gordons  will  like 
to  see  you. 

About  1849. 

My  dear  lady : 

A  note  comes  asking  mo  to  dine  tomorrow  with 
Mr.  Benedict,'^  close  l^y  you  at  No.  2  Manchester 
Square,  to  moot  Mdmo  Jenny  Lind,  I  reply  that  a 
lady  is  coming  to  dine  with  my  mother,  whom  I  must 
of  course  meet,  but  tliat  I  hope  Mrs.  B.  will  allow 
me  to  come  to  her  in  the  evening  with  my  mamma 
and  this  lady  under  each  arm,  and  I  promise  they 
will  look  and  behave  well.  Now  sup2)ose  Mrs.  S. 
and  I  were  to  come  and  dine  with  you,  or  my  moth- 
er alone,  if  you  liked  to  have  her  better  ;  yes,  that 
would  be  best,  and  I  could  come  at  nine  o'clock  and 
accompany  you  to  the  Swedish  nightingale. 
I  am  as  usual 

Your  obedient  servant 

Clarence  Bulbul. 

•  The  key  of  the  Portman  B'limre  Garden  which  was  kindly  lent  to  mo. 
^  Mr.  Benedict,  the  late  lamented  and  kindly  musician,  Sir  Julius  Bene- 
dict. 


[  1849  ] 

My  dear  lady  : 

It  was  begun,  "dear  Sir,"  to  somebody  of  tlie 
other  sex.  I  think  it  is  just  possible,  that  Mr.  Will- 
iam on  returning  to-day,  may  like  to  have  his  wife 
to  himself,  and  that  the  appearance  of  my  eter- 
nal countenance  might  be  a  bore,  hence  I  stay 
away.     .     . 

And  about  tomorrow,  the  birthday  of  my  now 
motherless  daughter.  Miss  Annie.  "Will  you  come 
out, — being  as  I  must  consider  you,  if  you  please, 
the  children's  aunt, — at  two,  or  three  o'clk,  or  so, 
and  take  innocent  pleasures  with  them,  such  as  the 
Coliseum  and  the  Zoological  Gardens  ?  and  are  you 
free  so  as  to  give  them  some  dinner  or  tea  in  the 
evening?  I  dine  out  myself  at  8  o'clock,  and 
should  like  them  to  shai-e  innocent  pleasures  with 
their  relation. 

My  mother  writes  from  Fareham  that  the  old 
great  aunt  is  better,  and  will  not  dejiart  probably 
yet  awhile. 

And  now  concerning  Monday.  You  two  must 
please  remember  that  you  are  engaged  to  this  house 
at  seven.  I  have  written  to  remind  the  Scotts,  to 
ask  the  Pollocks,  and  the  Carlyles  are  coming. 

And  now  with  regard  to  this  evening,  I  dine  in 
Westbourne  Terrace,  then  I  must  go  to  Marshall's 


74  feeffere  cf  ^^acftera^. 

iu  Eaton  Square  and  then  to  Mrs.  Sartoris,  where  I 
don't  expect  to  see  you  ;  but  if  a  gentleman  of  the 
name  of  W.  H.  B.  should  have  a  mind  to  come,  we 
might  &c.  &c. 

Madam,  I  hope  you  have  had  a  pleasant  walk  on 
Claj)ham's  breezy  common,  and  that  you  are  pretty 
well.  I  mj'self  was  very  quiet,  w^ent  with  the  chil- 
dren to  Hampstead,  and  then  to  the  Opera,  and  only 
one  party.  I  am  writing  at  the  Eeform  Club,  until 
four  o'clock,  when  I  have  an  engagement  with  O ! 
such  a  charming  person,  and  ttte-d-ttte  too.  Well, 
it's  with  the  dentist's  arm  chair,  but  I  should  like  to 
have  the  above  queries  satisfactorily  answered,  and 
am  always  Madam's 

^\.  M.  T. 

13  July  1849 

From  Brighton. 

Now  for  to  go  to  begin  that  long  letter  which  I 
have  a  right  to  send  you,  after  keei:)ing  silence,  or 
the  next  thing  to  silence,  for  a  whole  week.  As  I 
have  nothing  to  tell  about,  it  is  the  more  likely  to 
be  longer  and  funnier — no,  not  funnier,  for  I  believe 
I  am  generally  most  funny  when  I  am  most  melan- 
choly,— and  who  can  be  melancholy  with  such  air, 
ocean  and  sunshine?  not  if  I  were  going  to  be 
hanged  tomorrow  could  I  afford  to  be  anything  but 
exceedingly  lazy,  hungry  and  comfortable.     Why  is 


Eeffere  of  t^ac^trai^.  73 

a  clay's  Brighton  the  best  of  doctors?  I  don't  mean 
this  for  a  riddle,  but  I  got  up  bungiy,  and  have  been 
yawning  in  the  sun  like  a  fat  lazzarone,  with  great 
hajjpiness  all  day.  I  have  got  a  window  with  a  mag- 
nificent prospect,  a  fresh  sea  breeze  blowing  in,  such 
a  blue  sea  yonder  as  can  scarcely  be  beat  by  the 
Naples  or  the  Mediterranean  blue  ;  and  have  passed 
the  main  part  of  the  morning  reading  O  !  such  a 
stupid  book,  Fanny  Hervey,  the  new  iiUime  novel  of 
the  season,  as  good  as  Miss  Austen's  people  say. 
In  two  hours  I  am  engaged  to  dinner  in  London. 
Well,  I  have  broken  with  that  place  thank  Heaven, 
for  a  little,  and  shall  only  go  back  to  do  my  plates 
and  to  come  awa}'.  "Whither  to  go  ?  I  have  a  fancy 
that  Hyde  in  the  Isle  of  Wight  would  be  as  nice  a 
place  as  any  for  idling,  for  sketching,  for  dawdling, 
and  getting  health ;  but  the  Eev.  Mr.  Brookfield 
must  determine  this  for  me,  and  I  look  to  sec  him 
here  in  a  day  or  two. 

.  .  .  I  wish  they  had  called  me  sooner  to  din- 
ner ;  there's  only  one  man  staying  at  this  house, 
and  he  asked  me  at  breakfast  in  a  piteous  tone,  to 
let  him  dine  with  me.  If  we  were  two,  he  said,  the 
rules  of  the  club  woiald  allow  us  a  joint, — as  if  this 
luxury  would  tempt  the  voluptuary  who  pens  these 
lines.  He  has  come  down  here  suffering  from  in- 
digestion, and  with  a  fatal  dying  look,  which  I  have 
seen  in  one  or  two  people  before  ;  he  rushed  wildly 


7^  &effer0  of  t^CicUcva^, 

upou  the  joint  and  clcvoured  it  with  famished  eager- 
ness. He  said  lie  Lad  been  curate  of  St.  James, 
Westminster, — wliereiipon  I  asked  if  be  knew  my 
friend  Brookfield.  "My  successor,"  says  lie,  " a  very 
able  man,  very  good  fellow,  married  a  very  nice 
woman."  Upon  my  word  he  said  all  this,  and  of 
course  it  was  not  my  business  to  contradict  him. 
He  said,  no,  he  didn't  say,  but  the  Avaiter  said,  with- 
out my  asking,  that  his  name  was  ]VIi\  Palmer ;  and 
then  he  asked  if  Brookfield  had  any  children,  so  I 
said  I  believed  not,  and  began  to  ask  about  his  own 
children.  How  queer  it  seemed  to  be  talking  in 
this  wa}',  and  what  2id  incidents  to  tell  ;  but  there 
arc  no  others ;  nobody  is  here.  The  paper  this 
morning  announced  the  death  of  dear  old  Horace 
Smith,'  that  good  serene  old  man,  Avho  went  out  of 
tlie  world  in  charity  with  all  in  it,  and  having  shown 
through  his  life,  as  far  as  I  knew  it,  quite  a  delight- 
ful love  of  God's  works  and  creatures, — a  true,  loyal. 
Christian  man.  So  was  Morier,  of  a  diflferent  order, 
but  possessing  that  precious  natural  quality  of  love, 
which  is  awarded  to  some  lucky  minds  such  as  these, 
Charles  Lambs,  and  one  or  two  more  in  our  trade  ; 
to  many  amongst  the  parsons  I  think  ;  to  a  friend 
of  yours  by  the  name  of  Makej^eace,  perhaps,  but 

•  Horace  Smith  and  his  brotlier  were  the  authors  of  '"  Rejected  Ad- 
dresseH."  The  two  Miss  Horace  Smiths  are  still  living  at  Brighton,  where 
Mr.  Thackeray  hpealcs  of  meeting  them  after  his  illness.  Their  society  ia 
still  much  sought  after. 


fecttere  cf  ^^ftcrag.  77 

not  unalloyed  to  this  one.  O  !  God  purify  it,  and 
make  my  heart  clean.  After  dinner  and  a  drive  on 
the  sea  shore,  I  came  home  to  an  evening's  reading 
which  took  place  as  follows — 

[  Here  in  the  orifjinal  letter  a  draidng  of  himself  asleep  in  his 
chdir  ] 

It  is  always  so  with  my  good  intentions,  and  I 
woke  about  dawn,  and  found  it  was  quite  time  to 
go  to  bed.  But  the  solitude  and  idleness  I  think  is 
both  cheerful  and  wholesome.  I've  a  mind  to  stay 
on  here,  and  begin  to  hope  I  shall  write  a  stronger 
number  of  Pendennis  than  some  of  the  last  ones 
have  been.  The  Clevcdon  plan  was  abandoned  be- 
fore I  came  away  ;  some  place  in  S.  Wales,  I  forget 
what,  was  fixed  upon  by  the  old  folks.  I  would  go 
with  them,  but  one  has  neither  the  advantage  of  so- 
ciety nor  of  being  alone,  and  it  is  best  to  follow  my 
own  ways.  What  a  flood  of  egotism  is  being  poured 
out  on  you !  Well,  I  do  think  of  some  other  people 
in  the  world  besides  myself 

1849. 

Brighton,  Saturday — Alonday. 

Thank  you  for  your  letter,  dear  Mrs.  Brookfield  ; 

it  made  this  gay  place  look  twice  as  gay  yesterday 

when  I  got  it.     Last  night  when  I  had  come  home 

to  work,  two  men  spied  a  light  in  my  room,  and 


7«5  £effer0  of  ^^fterai?. 

came  in  and  began  smoking.  They  talked  about 
I'acing  and  the  odds  all  the  time.  One  of  them  I  am 
hajipy  to  say  is  a  lord,  and  the  other  a  Brighton 
buck.  When  they  were  gone  (and  indeed  I  listened 
to  them  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  for  I  like  to 
hear  people  of  all  sorts,)  at  mid-night,  and  in  the 
quiet  I  read  your  letter  over  again,  and  one  from 
Miss  Annie,  and  from  my  dear  old  mother,  who  is 
to  come  on  the  12th.  and  whose  heart  is  yearning 
for  her  children.  I  must  be  at  home  to  receive  her, 
and  some  days,  ten  or  so  at  least,  to  make  her  com- 
fortable, so  with  many  thanks  for  Mrs.  Elton's  invi- 
tation, I  must  decline  it  for  the  present  if  you  please. 
You  may  be  sure  I  went  the  vei*y  first  thing  to  Vir- 
ginia and  her  sisters,  who  were  very  kind  to  n:ic,  and 
I  think  are  very  fond  of  me,  and  their  talk  and 
beauty  consoled  me,  for  my  heart  was  very  sore  and 
I  was  ill  and  out  of  sjiirits.  A  change,  a  fine  air, 
a  wonderful  sunshine  and  moonlight,  and  a  great 
Si^ectacle  of  happy  people  perpetually  rolling  by, 
has  done  me  all  the  good  in  the  world,  and  then  one 
of  the  Miss  Smiths  '  told  me  a  story  which  is  the 
very  thing  for  the  beginning  of  Pendennis,  which  is 

*  The  Miss  Smiths  here  referred  to  are  the  ilaughters  of  the  late  Horace 
Smith,  author  of  "  Rejected  Addresses." 

The  Virginia  here  mentioned  was  the  beautiful  Miss  Pattle,  then  in  her 
carhest  youth,  and  who  is  now  the  widow  of  the  hite  Earl  Soniers.  In  those 
days  she  lived  with  her  sister  and  her  husband,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tholjy  Prin- 
Bcp  at  Little  Holland  House,  Kensington,  wh<;re  they  gathnreil  around  them 
a  charming  society  and  where  Mr.  Thackeray  was  ever  welcomed,  almost  aa 
one  of  the  family.    Their  garden  parties  will  ever  be  remembered. 


feeffers  of  ^^acttera^.  79 

actually  begun  and  in  progress.  This  is  a  comical 
beginning  ratlier.  The  other,  which  I  didn't  lik(i 
was  sentimental,  and  will  ^-et  come  in  very  well  af- 
ter the  startling  comical  business  has  been  played 
off.  See  how  beautifully  I  have  put  stoi:)S  to  the 
last  sentence,  and  crossed  the  t's  and  dotted  the  i's  ! 
It  was  written  four  hours  ago,  before  dinner,  before 
Jullien's  concert,  before  a  walk  by  the  sea  shore.— I 
have  been  thinking  what  a  number  of  ladies,  and 
gentlemen  too,  live  like  you  just  now,  in  a  smart 
papered  rooms,  with  rats  gnawing  behind  the  wain- 
scot ;  Be  hanged  to  the  rats,  but  they  are  a  sort  of 
company.  You  must  have  a  poker  ready,  and  if  the 
rats  come  out,  hamj  !  beat  them  on  the  head.  This 
is  an  allegory,  why,  it  would  work  up  into  a  little 
moral  poem  if  you  chose  to  write  it.  Jullien  was 
sjiendid  in  his  white  waistcoat,  and  played  famous 
easy  music  which  anybody  may  comprehend  and 
like.  There  was  a  delightful  cornet  a  piston,  (mark 
the  accent  on  the  a).  The  fact  is  I  am  thinking 
about  something  else  all  the  while  and  am  very  tired 
and  weary,  but  I  thought  I  would  like  to  say  good 
night  to  you,  and  what  news  shall  I  give  you  just  for 
the  last?  Well  then,  Miss  Virginia  is  gone  away,  not 
to  come  back  while  I  am  here.  Good  night,  ma'am, 
if  you  please. 

.     .     Being   entirely   occupied    with   my   two 
new  friends,  Mrs.  Pendeniiis  and  her  son  Mr.  Ai-thur 


8o  Eetfere  of  ^^odlemi?. 

Pendeuiiis,  I  got  up  very  early  again  this  morning, 
and  was  witli  them  for  more  than  two  hours  before 
breakfast.  He  is  a  very  good  natured  generous 
young  fellow,  and  I  begin  to  like  him  considerably. 
I  wonder  whether  he  is  interesting  to  nie  from  selfish 
reasons  and  because  I  fancy  we  resemble  each  other 
in  many  points,  and  whether  I  can  get  the  public  to 
like  him  too  ?  We  had  the  most  magnificent  sun- 
shine Sunday,  and  I  passed  the  evening  very  ration- 
ally with  Mr.  Fonblanque  and  Mr.  Shell,  a  great 
orator  of  whom  perhaps  you  have  heard,  at  present 
lying  here  afHicted  with  gout,  and  with  such  an 
Irish  wife.  Never  was  a  truer  saying  than  that 
those  people  are  foreigners.  They  have  neither  Eng- 
lish notions,  manners,  nor  morals.  I  mean  what  is 
right  and  natural  to  them,  is  absurd  and  unrea- 
sonable to  us.  It  was  as  good  as  IMrs.  O'Dowd  to 
hear  Mrs.  Shell  interrupt  her  Kichard  and  give  her 
opinions  on  the  state  of  Ireland,  to  those  two  great, 
hard-lieaded,  keen,  accomplished  men  of  the  world. 
lli(;hard  listened  to  her  foolishness  with  admirable 
forbearance  and  good  humour.  I  am  afraid  I  don't 
respect  your  sex  enough,  though.  Yes  I  do,  when 
they  are  occupied  with  loving  and  sentiment  rather 
than  with  other  business  of  life. 

I  had  a  mind  to  send  you  a  weekly  paper  contain- 
ing contemptuous  remarks  regarding  an  author  of 
your  acquaintance.     I  don't  know  who  this  critic  is, 


£effer0  of  ^^ocfterag.  •      8i 

but  he  filwaj'S  Las  a  shot  at  mc  once  a  month,  and  I 
bet  a  guinea  he  is  an  Irishman. 

80  we  have  got  the  cholera.  Are  you  looking 
out  for  a  visit  ?  Did  you  try  the  Stethoscope,  and 
after  listening  at  your  chest,  did  it  say  that  your 
lungs  were  sore  ? 

FRAGMENT. 

"^  [  1849  ] 
I  am  going  to  dine  at  the  Berrys  to-day  and  to 
Lady  Ashburton's  at  night.  I  dined  at  home  three 
days  running,  think  of  that.  This  is  my  news,  it 
isn't  much  is  it?  I  have  written  a  wicked  number 
of  Pendcnnis,  but  like  it  rather,  it  has  a  good  moral, 
I  believe,  although  to  some  it  may  appear  naughty. 
Big  Higgins'  who  dined  with  me  yesterday  offered 
me,  what  do  you  think  ?  "If,"  says  he,  "you  are  tired 
and  want  to  lie  fallow  for  a  year,  come  to  me  for  the 
money.  I  have  much  more  than  I  want."  Wasn't  it 
kind  V     I  like  to  hear  and  to  tell  of  kind  things. 

Wednesday.     184<). 

What  have  I  been  doing  since  these  many  days? 
I  hardly  know.  I  have  written  such  a  stuj^id  num- 
ber of  Pendemufi,  in  consequence  of  not  seeing  you, 
that  I  shall  be  ruined  if  you  are  to  stay  away  much 
J^nger.  .  .  .  Has  William  written  to  you  about 
our  trip  to  Hampstead  on   Sunday?     It  was  very 

'  Big  Higgius — th(j  well  known  writer  uiulcr  Uic  bigiiatuix'  uf  Jacob  Oiuniuia. 

G 


S2      .  £,ettcr0  of  Z^acikvai^. 

pleasant.  We  went  first  to  St.  Mark's  cliurch,  where 
I  always  thought  you  went,  but  where  the  pew 
opener  had  never  heard  of  such  a  person  as  Mrs.  J. 
O.  B. ;  and  having  heard  a  jolly  and  perfectly  stupid 
sermon,  walked  over  Primrose  Hill  to  the  Crowes', 
where  His  Reverence  gave  Mrs.  Crowe  half  an  hour's 
private  talk,  whilst  I  was  talking  under  the  blossom- 
ing apple  tree  about  newspapers  to  Monsieur  Crowe. 
Well,  Mrs.  Crowe  was  delighted  with  William  and 
his  manner  of  discoorsing  her ;  and  indeed  though  I 
say  it  that  shouldn't,  from  what  he  said  afterwards, 
and  from  what  we  have  often  talked  over  pipes  in 
private,  that  is  a  pious  and  kind  souL  I  mean  his, 
and  calculated  to  soothe  and  comfort  and  appreciate 
and  elevate  so  to  speak  out  of  despair,  many  a  soul 
that  your  more  tremendous,  rigorous  divines  would 
leave  on  the  Avay  side,  where  siu,  that  robber,  had 
left  them  half  killed.  I  will  have  a  Samaritan  par- 
son when  I  fall  among  thieves.  You,  dear  lady, 
may  send  for  an  ascetic  if  you  like  ;  what  is  he  to 
find  wrong  in  you  ? 

I  have  talked  to  my  mother  about  her  going  to 
Paris  with  the  children,  she  is  very  much  j^leased 
at  the  notion,  and  it  won't  bo  very  lonely  to  me.  I 
shall  be  alone  for  some  months  at  any  rate,  and  vow 
and  swear  I'll  save  money.  .  .  .  Have  you  read 
Dickens?  O!  it  is  charming!  brave  Dickens!  It 
Las  some  of  his  very  prettiest  touches — those  in- 


feetfere  of  ^^fterai?.  8} 

imitablc  Dickens  touches  which  make  such  a  great 
man  of  him  ;  and  the  reading  of  the  book  has  done 
another  author  a  great  deal  of  good.  In  the  first 
place  it  pleases  the  other  author  to  see  that  Dickens, 
who  has  long  left  off  alluding  to  theA.'s  works,  has 
been  copying  the  O.  A.,  and  greatly  simplifying  his 
style,  and  overcoming  the  use  of  fine  words.  By 
this  the  public  will  be  the  gainer  and  David  CopjJer- 
fidd  will  be  improved  by  taking  a  lesson  from  Vanity 
Fair.  Secondly  it  has  put  me  upon  my  metal ;  for 
ah!  Madame,  all  the  metal  was  out  of  me  and  I  have 
l:)een  dreadfully  and  curiously  cast  down  this  month 
past.  I  say,  secondly,  it  has  put  me  on  my  metal 
and  made  me  feel  I  must  do  something  ;  that  I  have 
fame  and  name  and  family  to  support.     .     .     . 

I  have  just  come  away  from  a  dismal  sight ;  Goro 
House  full  of  snobs  looking  at  the  furniture.  Foul 
Jews  ;  odious  bombazine  women,  who  drove  up  in 
mysterious  flys  which  they  had  hired,  the  wretches, 
to  be  fined,  so  as  to  come  in  state  to  a  fashionable 
lounge  ;  brutes  keeping  their  hats  on  in  the  kind  old 
drawing  room, — I  longed  to  knock  some  of  them  off, 
and  say  "Sir,  be  civil  in  a  lady's  room."  .  .  , 
There  was  one  of  the  servants  there,  not  a  powdered 
one,  but  a  butler,  a  whafdi/oucaUit.  My  heart  melted 
towards  him  and  I  gave  him  a  pound,  Ah  !  it  was  a 
strange,  sad  picture  of  Vanity  Fair.  My  mind  is 
all  boiling    up   with  it ;   indeed,  it  is  in    a  (jueer 


84  Eeftere  cf  ^^ocftcrai?. 

state.     ...     I  give  my  best  reincmbrauces  to  all 
at  Clevedoii  Court. 

[30th  J"  ;i^  1849] 

My  dear  lady  : 

I  have  2  opera  boxes  for  tonight — a  pit  box — for 
the  Huguenots  at  Covent  Garden — where  there  is 
no  ballet,  and  where  you  might  sit  and  see  this 
grand  opera  in  great  ease  and  quiet.  "Will  you 
please  to  say  if  you  will  have  it  and  I  will  send  or 
bring  it. 

Or  if  Miss  Hallam  dines  with  you,  may  I  come 
afterwards  to  tea?  Say  yes  or  no  ;  I  sha'n"t  be  of- 
fended, only  best  pleased  of  course  with  yes.  I  am 
engaged  on  Monday  Tuesday  and  Wednesday  nights, 
BO  if  you  go  away  on  Thursday  I  shall  have  no 
chance  of  seeing  you  again  for  ever  so  long. 

I  was  to  breakfast  with  Mr.  Rogers  this  moriiing 

but  he  played  me  false. 

Good  bve 

w.  :\i.  T. 

FKAGMENT. 

21  July  1849. 
[TO   MR.    BROOKFIELD] 
Adelaide  Procter  has  sent  me  the  most  elegant 
velvet  purse,  embroidered  with  my  initials,  and  for- 
get-me-nots  on    the   other   side.      I  received    this 
peace-o£fering   with  a  gentle  heart  ;  one  must  not 


feeffere  of  t^c^^^i^'e-  "^5 

lose  old  friends  nt  our  time  of  life,  and  if  one  has 
offeudcd  them  one  must  try  and  try  until  they  are 
brought  baclc. 

IVIi-s.  Powell,  the  lady  I  asked  you  to  stir  about, 
has  got  the  place  of  matron  of  the  Governesses,  a 
house  and  perquisites,  and  100  a  year,  an  immense 
thing  for  a  woman  with  nothing. 

On  the  30th  June,  the  day  you  went,  Rogers 
threw  me  over  for  breakfast,  and  to-day  comes  the 
most  lamentable  letter  of  excuse.  Yesterday,  the 
day  madarne  went  away,  the  Strutts  asked  me  to 
Greenwich,  and  when  I  got  there,  no  dinner.  An- 
other most  pathetic  letter  of  excuse.  These  must 
be  answered  in  a  witty  manner,  so  must  Miss  Proc- 
ter, for  the  purse ;  so  must  Mrs.  Alfred  Montgom- 
er3%  who  offers  a  dinner  on  Monday  ;  so  must  two 
more,  and  I  must  Avrite  that  demnition  Mr.  Browne 
before  evensong. 

From  the  Fundi  office,  where  I'm  come  for  to  go 

to  dress,  to  dine  with  the  Lord  mayor  ;  but  I  have 

nothing  to  say  but  that  I  am  yours,  my  dear  old 

friend,  affectionately, 

W.  M.  T. 

FKAOMEXT. 

[ 1849  ] 

I  was  to  go  to  Iklrs.  Montgomery's  at  this  hour  of 
10.30,  but  it  must  be  the  contrary,  that  is,   :\Ii-s. 


86  feeffer0  of  ^^cidtemp. 

Procter's.  I  -wrote  Adelaide  Ler  letter  for  the  purse, 
and  instead  of  thanking  her  much,  only  discoursed 
about  old  age,  disappointment,  death,  and  melan- 
choly. 

The  old  people  are  charming  at  home,  with  their 
kindness.  They  are  going  away  at  the  end  of  the 
week,  somewhere,  they  don't  say  where,  with  the 
children.  The  dear  old  step-father  moves  me  rath- 
er the  most,  he  is  so  gentle  and  good  humoured.^ 
Last  night  Harry  came  to  dinner,  and  being  Sun- 
day there  was  none,  and  none  to  be  had,  and  we  went 
to  the  tavern  hard-bye,  where  he  didn't  eat  a  bit. 
I  did 

At  Procter's  Avas  not  furiously  amusing  —  the 
eternal  G.  bores  one.  Her  parents  were  of  course 
there,  the  papa  with  a  suspicious  looking  little  or- 
der in  his  button  hole,  and  a  chevalier  d'industrie 
air,  which  I  can't  get  over.     E.  didn't  sing,  but  on 

the  other  hand  Mrs.  did.     She  was  passionate, 

she  was  enthusiastic,  she  was  sublime,  she  was  ten- 
der. There  was  one  note  that  she  kept  so  long,  that 
I  protest  I  had  time  to  think  about  my  affairs,  to 
have  a  little  nap,  and  to  awake  much  refreshed, 
while  it  was  going  on  still.  At  another  time,  over- 
come by  almost  unutterable  tenderness,  she  piped 
so  low,  that  it's  a  wonder  one  could  hear  at  all.  In 
a  word,  she  was  mirobolante,  the  most  artless,  affect- 
ed, good-natured,  absurd,  clever  creature  possible. 


£effcr0  of  ^^acftera)?.  8y 

■\yhen  she  had  crushed  G.  who  stood  by  the  piano 
hating  her,  and  paying  her  the  most  profound  com- 
l)Hments — she  tripped  oft'  on  my  arm  to  the  cab  in 
waiting.     I  Hke  that  absurd  kind  creature. 

Drums  are  beating  in  various  quarters  for  jDarties 
yet  to  come  oft",  but  I  am  refusing  any  more,  being 
cj^uite  done  up.  I  am  tliinking  of  sending  the  old 
and  young  folks  to  Clevedon,  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Bob- 
bins and  Mrs.  Parr  will  be  kind  to  them,  won't 
they? 

m 

[  During  ;tii  Illness,  August  1849  ] 
No.  1. 

G3  East  Street,  Brighton. 

Yesterda}'  I  had  the  courage  to  fly  to  Brighton,  I 
liave  got  a  most  beautiful  lodging,  and  had  a  de- 
lightful sleep.  I  write  a  line  at  seven  o'clock  of  the 
morning  to  tell  you  these  good  news.     G  b  y. — 

No.  2. 

Co  East  Street,  Brighton. 

This  morning's,  you  know,  wasn't  a  letter,  only  to 
tell  you  that  I  was  pretty  well  after  my  ti*avels  ;  and 
after  the  letter  was  gone,  thinks  I,  the  handwriting 
is  so  bad  and  shaky,  she  will  think  I  am  worse,  and 
only  write  fibs  to  try  and  soothe  her.  But  the  cause 
of  the  bad  writing  Avas  a  bad  pen,  and  imjiossible 
ink.     See  how  dift'ercnt  this  is,  though  I  have  not 


88  Eetfcre  of  ^^acfterag. 

much  to  say  now,  only  that  I  have  been  sittmg  on 
the  chain  pier  in  a  bath  chair  for  two  hours,  and  feel 
greatly  invigorated  and  pleasantly  tired  by  the 
wholesome  sea  breezes.  Shall  I  be  asleep  in  two 
minutes  I  wonder  ?  I  think  I  will  try,  I  think  snor- 
ing is  better  than  writing.  Come,  let  us  try  a  little 
doze  ;  a  comfortable  little  doze  of  a  quarter  of  an 
hour. 

Since  then,  a  somewhat  fatiguing  visit  from  the 
Miss  Smiths,  who  are  all  kindness,  and  look  very 
pretty  in  their  mourning.'  I  found  acquaintances 
on  the  pier  too,  and  my  chair  anchored  alongside  of 
that  of  a  very  interesting  nice  little  woman,  Mrs. 
Whitmore,  so  that  there  was  more  talkee-talkee. 
Well,  I  won't  go  on  writing  any  more  about  my  ail- 
ments, and  dozes  and  fatigues  ;  but  sick  folks  are 
abominably  selfish ;  sick  men  that  is,  and  so  God 
bless  my  dear  lady. 


W.  M.  T. 


Thurs.liiy. 


I  cannot  write  you  long,  dear  lady  ;  I  have  two 
notes  to  my  mother  daily,  and  a  long  one  to  Elliot- 
sou,  &c.  ;  but  I  am  getting  on  doucement,  like  the 
change  of  air  exceedingly,  the  salt  water  baths,  and 
the  batb-chair  journeys  to  the  jiier  where  it  is  al- 
most as  fresh  as  being  at  sea.     But  do  you  go  on 

"  Horace  Smith  died  ]2Ui  July,  1S19. 


!  OS  Aiiif^  i,  _ 

writing,  pleaso,  and  as  often  as  you  can  ;  for  it  does 
me  good  to  get  kind  letters.  God  bless  you  and 
good-night,  is  all  I  can  say  now,  with  ray  love  to 
his  Reverence  from 

W.  M.  T. 

[  Paris,  Feb.  1849  ] 
My  dear  Lady : 

I  have  been  to  see  a  great  character  to-day  and 
another  still  greater  yesterday.  To-day  was  Jules 
Janin,  whose  books  you  never  read,  nor  do  I  sup- 
jiose  you  could  very  well.  He  is  the  critic  of  the 
Journal  des  Debats  and  has  made  his  weekly  feuille- 
ton  famous  throughout  Europe — He  does  not  know 
a  word  of  English,  but  he  translated  Sterne  and  I 
think  Clarissa  Harlowe.  One  week,  having  no  the- 
atres to  describe  in  his  feuilleton,  or  no  other  sub- 
ject liandy,  he  described  his  own  marriage,  which 
took  place  in  fact  that  week,  and  absolutely  made  a 
present  of  his  sensations  to  all  the  European  public. 
He  has  the  most  wonderfid  verve,  humour,  oddity, 
honesty,  bonhomie.  He  was  ill  with  the  gout,  or 
recovering  perhaps  ;  but  bounced  about  the  room, 
gesticulating,  joking,  gasconading,  quoting  Latin, 
pulling  out  his  books  which  are  very  handsome,  and 
tossing  about  his  curling  brown  hair  ; — a  magnifi- 
cent jolly  intelligent  face  such  as  would  suit  Pan  I 
should  think,  a  flood  of  humourous,  rich,  jovial  talk. 


90  feeffere  of  (t^ftcra^. 

Aud  now  I  have  described  tins,  bow  are  you  to  have 
the  least  idea  of  him. — I  daresay  it  is  not  a  bit  like 
him.  He  recommended  me  to  read  Diderot ;  which 
I  have  been  reading  in  at  his  recommendation  ;  and 
that  is  a  remarkable  sentimental  cynic,  too  ;  in  his 
way  of  thinking  and  sudden  humours  not  unlike — 
not  unlike  Mr.  Bowes  of  the  Chatteris  Theatre.  I 
can  fancy  Harr}-  Pendennis  and  him  seated  on  the 
bridge  and  talking  of  their  mutual  mishaps ; — no 
Arthur  Pendennis  the  boy's  name  is!  I  shall  be 
forgetting  my  own  next.  But  mind  you,  my  similes 
don't  go  any  further  :  and  I  hope  you  don't  go  for 
to  fancy  that  you  know  an3'body  like  Miss  Fotherin- 
gay— j-ou  don't  suppose  that  I  think  that  you  have 
no  heart,  do  j'ou  ?  But  there's  many  a  woman  who 
has  none,  and  about  whom  men  go  crazy ; — such 
was  the  other  character  I  saw  yesterday.  We  had 
a  long  talk  in  which  she  showed  me  her  interior, 
and  I  inspected  it  and  left  it  in  a  state  of  wonder- 
ment which  I  can't  describe.     .     .     . 

She  is  kind,  frank,  open-handed,  not  very  refined, 
with  a  warm  outpouring  of  language  ;  and  thinks 
herself  the  most  feeling  creature  in  the  world.  The 
way  in  which  she  fascinates  some  people  is  quite  ex- 
traordinary. She  affected  me  by  telling  me  of  an 
old  friend  of  ours  in  the  country — Dr.  Portman's 
daughter  indeed,  who  was  a  parson  in  our  parts — 
who  died  of  consumption  the  other  day  after  lead- 


£ctfet0  of  ^^cfterai^.  9' 

ing  the  purest  and  saintliest  life,  and  who  after  she 
had  received  the  sacrament  read  over  her  friend's 
letter  and  actually  died  with  it  on  the  bed.  Her 
husband  adores  her  ;  he  is  an  old  cavalry  Colonel  of 
sixty,  and  the  poor  fellow  away  now  in  India,  and 
yearning  after  her  writes  her  yards  and  yards  of  the 
most  tender,  submissive,  frantic  letters  ;  five  or  six 
other  men  are  crazy  about  her.  She  trotted  them 
all  out,  one  after  another  before  me  last  night ;  not 
humourously,  I  mean,  nor  making  fun  of  them  ;  but 
complacently,  describing  their  adoration  for  her  and 
acquiescing  in  their  opinion  of  herself.  Friends, 
lover,  husband,  she  coaxes  them  all  ;  and  no  more 
cares  for  them  than  worthy  Miss  Fotheringay  did. — 
Oh  !  Becky  is  a  trifle  to  her  ;  and  I  am  sure  I  might 
draw  her  picture  and  she  would  never  know  in  the 
least  that  it  was  herself.  I  suppose  I  did  not  fall  iu 
love  with  her  myself  because  we  were  brought  up 
together  ;  she  was  a  very  simple  generous  creature 
then. 

Tuesday.  Friend  came  in  as  I  was  writing  last 
night,  perhaps  in  time  to  stop  my  chattering  ;  but 
I  am  encore  tout  emerceille  de  via  cousine.  By  all 
the  Gods !  I  never  had  the  opportunity  of  inspect- 
ing such  a  naturalness  and  coquetry  ;  not  that  I  sup- 
pose that  there  are  not  many  such  Avomen  ;  but  I 
have  only  myself  known  one  or  two  women  inti- 
mately, and  I  daresay  the  novelty  would  wear  ofT  if 


9^  £effer6  of  ^^ocftcrag. 

I  knew  more.  I  bad  the  Revue  dcs  2  mondes  and 
the  Journal  des  Debuts  to  dinner  ;  and  what  do  you 
think  by  way  of  a  debcate  attention  the  chef  served 
us  up  ?  Mock-turtle  soup  again,  and  uncommonly 
good  it  was  too.  After  dinner  I  went  to  a  ball  at 
the  prefecture  of  Police  ;  the  most  splendid  apart- 
ments I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  8ucb  lights,  pillars, 
marble,  hangings,  carvings,  and  gildings.  I  am 
sure  King  Belshazzar  could  not  have  been  more 
magnificently  lodged. — There  must  have  been  15 
hundred  people,  of  whom  I  did  not  know  one  sin- 
gle soul.  I  am  sui*prised  that  the  people  did  not 
faint  ill  the  Saloons,  which  were  like  burning  fiery 
furnaces  ;  but  there  they  were  dancing  and  tripping 
awaj',  ogling  and  flirting,  and  I  suppose  not  finding 
the  place  a  bit  inconveniently  warm.  The  women  were 
very  queer  looking  bodies  for  the  most,  I  thought, 
but  the  men  dandies  every  one,  fierce  and  trim  with 
curling  little  mustachios.  I  felt  dimly  that  I  was  3 
inches  taller  than  auy  body  else  in  the  room  but  I 
hoped  that  nobody  took  notice  of  me.  There  was 
a  rush  for  ices  at  a  footman  who  brought  those  re- 
freshments which  was  perfectly  teri'ific. — They  were 
scattex-ed  melting  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  as  I 
ran  out  of  it  in  a  panic.  There  was  an  old  British 
dowager  with  two  daughters  seated  up  against  a 
wall  very  dowdy  and  sad,  poor  old  lady ;  I  wonder 
what  she  wanted  there  and  whether  that  was  what 


£efter6  of  ^^ocilcrai?.  93 

she  called  pleasure.  I  went  to  see  William's  old 
friend  and  mine,  Bowes  ;  lie  Las  forty  thousand  a 
year  and  palaces  in  the  country,  and  hero  he  is  a 
manager  of  a  Theatre  of  Varietes,  and  his  talk  was 
about  actors  and  coulisses  all  the  time  of  our  inter- 
view. I  wish  it  could  be  the  last,  but  he  has  made 
me  promise  to  dine  with  him,  and  go  I  must,  to 
be  killed  by  his  melancholy  gentlemanlikeness.  I 
think  that  is  all  I  did  yesterday.  Dear  lady,  I  am 
pained  at  your  having  l)een  unwell  ;  I  thought  you 
must  have  been,  when  Saturday  came  without  any 
letter.  There  wont  be  one  today  I  bet  twopence. 
I  am  going  to  a  lecture  at  the  Institute  ;  a  lecture 
on  Burns  by  M.  Chasles,  who  is  professor  of  Eng- 
lish literature.  What  a  course  of  lionizing,  isn't  it? 
But  it  must  stop  ;  for  is  not  the  month  the  shortest 
of  months  ?  I  went  to  see  my  old  haunts  when  I 
came  to  Paris  13  years  ago,  and  made  believe  to  be 
a  painter, — just  after  I  was  ruined  and  before  I  fell 
in  love  and  took  to  marriage  and  writing.  It  was  a 
vciy  jolly  time,  I  was  as  poor  as  Job  and  sketched 
away  most  abominably,  but  pretty  contented  ;  and 
we  used  to  meet  in  each  others  little  rooms  and  talk 
about  art  and  smoke  pipes  and  drink  bad  brandy 
and  water. — That  awful  habit  still  remains,  but 
where  is  art,  that  dear  mistress  whom  I  loved,  though 
in  a  very  indolent  capricious  manner,  but  with  a 
real  sincerity  ? — I  sec  her  far,  very  fur  oil"      I  jilted 


94  Eetfere  of  ^^odterag. 

her,  I  know  it  very  well ;  but  you  see  it  was  Fate 
ordained  that  marriage  should  never  take  place  ;  and 
forced  nie  to  take  on  with  another  lady,  two  other 
ladies,  three  other  ladies  ;  I  mean  the  muse  and  my 
wife  kc.  kc. 

Well  you  are  very  good  to  listen  to  all  this  egotis- 
tic prattle,  chere  soeur,  si  douce  et  si  bonne.  I  have 
no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  my  loves,  seeing  that  all 
three  are  quite  lawful.  Did  you  go  to  see  my  peo- 
ple yesterday?  Some  day  when  his  reverence  is 
away,  will  you  have  the  children  ?  and  not,  if  you 
please,  be  so  vain  as  to  fancy  that  you  can't  amuse 
them  or  tliat  they  will  be  bored  in  your  house. 
They  must  and  shall  be  fond  of  you,  if  you  please. 
Alfred's  open  mouth  as  ho  looked  at  the  broken 
bottle  and  spilt  wine  must  have  been  a  grand  pic- 
ture of  agony. 

I  couldn't  find  the  lecture  room  at  the  Institute,  so 
I  went  to  the  Louvre  instead,  and  took  a  feast  with 
the  statues  and  pictures.  The  Venus  of  Milo  is  the 
grandest  figure  of  figures.  The  wave  of  the  lines  of 
the  figure,  whenever  seen,  fills  my  senses  with  pleas- 
ure. What  is  it  which  so  charms,  satisfies  one,  in 
certain  lines  ?  O !  the  man  who  achieved  that  statue 
was  a  beautiful  genius.  I  have  been  sitting  think- 
ing of  it  these  10  minutes  in  a  delightful  sensuous 
rumination.  The  Colours  of  the  Titian  pictures  com- 
fort one's  eyes  similarly ;  and  after  these  feasts,  which 


£ctter6  of  ^^acfterag.  95 

wouldn't  please  my  lady  very  inucli  I  daresay,  being 
I  bhould  think  too  earthly  for  you,  I  went  and  looked 
at  a  picture  I  usedn't  to  care  much  for  in  old  days,  an 
angel  saluting  a  Virgin  and  child  by  Pietro  Cortona, 
— a  sweet  smiling  angel  with  a  lily  in  her  hands, 
looking  so  tender  and  gentle  I  wished  that  instant 
to  make  a  copy  of  it,  and  do  it  beautifully,  which 
I  cant,  and  present  it  to  somebody  on  Lady-day. — 
There  now,  just  fancy  it  is  done,  and  presented  in 
a  neat  comjiliment,  and  hung  up  in  your  room — a 
pretty  piece — dainty  and  devotional  ? — I  drove  about 

with ,  and  wondered  at  her  more  and  more. — She 

is  come  to  "my  dearest  William"  now:  though  she 
doesn't  cai'c  a  fig  for  me. — She  told  mo  astonishing 
things,  showed  me  a  letter  in  which  every  word  was 
true  and  which  was  a  fib  from  beginning  to  end  ; — A 
miracle  of  deception  ; — flattered,  fondled,  coaxed — 
O !  she  was  worth  coming  to  Paris  for  I  .  .  . 
Pray  God  to  keep  us  simple.  I  have  never  looked  at 
anything  in  my  life  which  has  so  amazed  me.  Why,\ 
this  is  as  good,  almost,  as  if  I  had  you  to  talk  to. 
Let  us  go  out  and  have  another  walk. 

FKAGMENT. 

[  ruris,  1849  ] 

Of  course  in  all  families  the  mother  is  the  one 
to  whom  the  children  chng.     We  don't  talk  to  them. 


g6  £cffer0  of  ?*:^adlerftg. 

feel  with  them,  love  them,  occupy  ourselves  about 
them  as  the  female  does. — We  think  about  our  busi- 
ness and  pleasure,  not  theirs.  Why  do  I  trouble 
you  with  these  perplexities  ?  If  I  mayn't  tell  you 
what  I  feel,  what  is  the  use  of  a  friend  ?  That's  why 
I  would  rather  have  a  sad  letter  from  you,  or  a  short 
one  if  you  are  tired  and  unwell,  than  a  sham-gay 
one — and  I  don't  subscribe  at  all  to  the  doctrine  of 
"  striving  to  be  cheerful  ".  A  quoi  bon,  convulsive 
grins  and  humbugging  good-humour  ?  Let  us  have 
a  reasonable  cheerfulness,  and  melancholy  too,  if 
there  is  occasion  for  it — and  no  more  hypocrisy  in 
life  than  need  be. 

We  had  a  pleasant  enough  visit  to  Versailles,  and 
then  I  went  to  see  old  Halliday,  and  then  to  see  old 
Bess,  and  to  sit  with  the  sick  Tom  Fraser.  I  spend 
my  days  so,  and  upon  my  word  ought  to  get  some 
reward  for  being  so  virtuous. 

On  Sunday  I  took  a  carriage  and  went  to  S.  in  the 
country.  The  jolly  old  nurse  who  has  been  in  the 
Kicketts  family  120  years  or  more  or  less,  talked 
about  Miss  Rosa,  late  M-  Fanshawe,  and  remem- 
bers her  the  flower  of  that  branch  of  the  family, 
and  exceedingly  pretty  and  with  a  most  lovely  com- 
plexion.— And  then  I  told  them  what  a  lovely  jewel 
tlie  present  ISIiss  Ixosa  was ;  and  how  very  fond  I 
was  of  her  mamma  ; — and  so  we  had  a  tolerably 
pleasant  aflernoon  ; — and  I  c;inic  back  and  sat  again 


Ecftere  of  it^ocfierae.  97 

with  Mr.  Thomas  Fi\aser.  Yesterday  there  was  a 
pretty  Httle  English  dauce  next  door  at  Mrs.  Erring- 
tou's,  and  an  EugHsh  country  dance  being  proposed, 
one  of  the  young  bucks  good-naturedly  took  a  fiddle 
and  played  very  well  too,  and  I  had  for  a  partner 
Madame  Gudin,  the  painters  wife,  I  think  I  men- 
tioned her  to  you,  didn't  I  ? 

She  is  a  daughter  of  Lord  James  Hay — a  very  fair 
complexion  and  jolly  face,  and  so  with  the  greatest 
fear  and  trepidation  (for  I  never  could  understand 
a  figure)  I  asked  her — and  she  refused  because  she 
tolls  me  that  she  is  too  ill,  and  I  am  sure  I  was  very 
glad  to  be  out  of  the  business. 

I  went  to  see  a  play  last  night,  and  the  new  come- 
dian Mademoiselle  Brohan  of  whom  all  the  world 
is  talking,  a  beautiful  young  woman  of  17  looking 
25  and — I  thought  — vulgar,  intensely  afiected,  and 
with  a  kind  of  stupid  intelligence  that  i:)assGS  for 
real  wit  with  the  pittites,  who  applauded  with  im- 
mense enthusiasm  all  her  smiles  and  shrugs  and 
gestures  and  ogles.  But  they  wouldn't  have  ad- 
mired her  if  she  hadn't  been  so  beautiful,  if  her  eyes 
weren't  bright  and  her  charms  undeniable. — I  was 
asked  to  beg  some  of  the  j'oung  English  Seigneurs 
here  to  go  to  an  Actress  ball,  where  there  was  to  be 
a  great  deal  of  Parisian  beauty,  which  a  cosmophilite 
ought  to  see  perhaps  as  well  as  any  other  phase  of 
society. — But   I   refused    Madame   Osy's  ball — my 


gS  feeftere  of  ^^fterap. 

grey  bead  has  no  call  to  show  amongst  these  young 
ones,  and,  as  in  the  next  novel  we  are  to  have  none 
but  good  characters — what  is  the  use  of  examining 
folks  who  are  quite  otherwise.  Meanwhile,  and  for 
10  days  more,  I  must  do  my  duty  and  go  out  feel- 
ing deucedly  lonely  in  the  midst  of  the  racketting 
and  jigging.  I  am  engaged  to  dinner  for  the  next 
3  days,  and  on  Friday  when  I  had  hoped  to  be  at 
home — my  mother  has  a  tea-party,  and  asked  trem- 
bling (for  she  is  awfully  afraid  of  me)  whether  I 

would  come — Of  course  Til  go. 

W.  M.  T. 

[Pam,  1849] 

Sunday  2  Sep'. 

Madani's  letter  made  a  very  agreeable  apj^earance 
upon  the  breakfast  table  this  morning  when  I  en- 
tered that  apartment  at  11  o'clock.  I  dont  know 
how  I  managed  to  sleep  so  much,  but  such  was  the 
fact — after  a  fine  broiling  hot  day's  utter  idleness 
part  of  wl"  was  spent  on  the  sofa,  a  little  in  the 
Twillery  gardens  where  I  made  a  sketch  thats  not 
a  masterpiece  but  praps  IMadam  will  like  to  see  it : 
and  the  evening  very  merrily  with  the  Morning 
Chronicle  the  Journal  des  Debats  and  Jules  Janin 
at  a  jolly  little  Restaurateur,  in  the  Champs  Ely  sees 
at  the  sign  of  the  Petit  ]\Ioulin  liouge.  We  had  a 
l^rivate  room  k.  di-auk  small  wine  very  gaily  looking 


feeffers  of  ^^acfterag.  99 

out  into  a  garden  full  of  green  arhours  in  almost 
every  one  of  w';  were  gentlemen  &  ladies  in  couples 
come  to  dine  au  frais,  and  afterwards  to  go  & 
dance  at  tbe  neighbouring  dancing  garden  of  Ma- 
bille.  Fiddlers  and  singers  came  and  performed 
for  us :  and  who  knows  I  should  have  gone  to  Ma- 
bille  too,  but  there  came  down  a  tremendous  thun- 
der-storm with  flashes  of  lightning  to  illuminate  it, 
w!"  sent  the  little  cou^dIgs  out  of  the  arbours,  and 
put  out  all  the  lights  of  Mabille.  The  day  before 
I  passed  with  my  aunt  &  cousins,  who  are  not  so 
pretty  as  some  members  of  the  family  ;  but  are  dear 
good  people  with  a  fine  sense  of  fun  and  we  were 
very  happy  until  the  arrival  of  two  newly-married 
snobs,  whose  happiness  disgusted  me  and  drove  me 
home  early,  to  find  3  acquaintances  smoking  in 
the  moonlight  at  the  hotel  door,  who  came  up  and 
passed  the  night  in  my  rooms — No  I  forgot,  I  went 
to  the  play  first:  but  only  for  an  hour  I  couldn't 
stand  more  than  an  hour  of  the  farce  w*"  made  me 
laugh  while  it  lasted,  but  left  a  profound  black  mel- 
ancholy behind  it.  Janin  said  last  night  that  life 
was  the  greatest  of  pleasures  to  him,  that  every 
morning  when  he  woke  he  was  thankful  to  be  alive 

[  Here  a  draicing  in  the  ongijud  letter] 

(this  is  very  toleraljly  like  him)  that  he  was  always 
entirely  happy,  and  had  never  known  any  such  thing 


loo  £etfer6  of  ^^cfterag. 

tis  blue  devils  or  repentance  or  satiety.  I  had  great 
fun  giving  him  authentic  accounts  of  London.  I 
told  him  that  to  see  the  peojDle  boxing  in  the  streets 
was  a  constant  source  of  amusement  to  us  ;  that  in 
November — you  saw  every  lamp  post  on  London 
Bridge  with  a  man  hanging  from  it  who  had  com- 
mitted suicide — and  he  believed  everything.  Did 
you  ever  read  any  of  the  works  of  Janin? — No? 
well  he  has  been  for  20  years  famous  in  France  :  and 
he  on  his  side  has  never  heard  of  the  works  of  Tit- 
marsh,  nor  has  anybody  else  here  and  that  is  a  com- 
fort. I  have  got  very  nice  rooms  but  they  cost  10 
francs  a  day  :  and  I  began  in  a  dignified  manner 
with  a  domestique  de  place,  but  sent  him  away  after 
two  days :  for  the  idea  that  he  was  in  the  anteroom 
ceaselessly  with  nothing  to  do,  made  my  life  in  my 
own  room  intolerable,  and  now  I  actually  take  my 
own  letters  to  the  post.  I  went  to  the  Exhibition, 
it  was  full  of  portraits  of  the  most  hideous  women, 
with  inconceivable  spots  on  their  faces  of  w*"  I  think 
I've  told  you  my  horror :  and  scarcely  G  decent  pict- 
ures in  the  whole  enormous  collection  :  but  I  had 
never  been  in  the  Tuilleries  before,  and  it  was  curi- 
ous to  go  through  the  vast  dingy  rooms  by  w^  such 
a  number  of  dynasties  have  come  in  &  gone 
out — Louis  XVL  Napoleon,  Charles  X.  Louis  Phi- 
lippe have  all  marched  in  state  up  the  staircase  with 
the  gilt  balustrades,  and  come  tumbling  down  again 


£cffere  of  ^^acfierai?.  loi 

presently. — Well  I  won't  give  you  an  historical  dis- 
quisition in  the  Titmarsh  manner  upon  this  but 
reserve  it  for  Punch — for  whom  on  Thursday  an  ar- 
ticle that  I  think  is  quite  unexampled  for  dullness 
even  in  that  journal,  and  that  beats  the  dullest  Jer- 
rold.  "What  a  jaunty  off  hand  satiric  rogue  I  am  to 
be  sure — and  a  gay  young  dog !  I  took  a  very  great\ 
liking  and  admiration  for  Clough.  He  is  a  real 
l^oet  and  a  simple  affectionate  creature.  Last  j^ear 
we  went  to  Blenheim  from  Oxford  (it  was  after  a  stay 

at  Cl-ved-n  C rt  the  seat  of  Sir  C E n 

B 1)  and  I  liked  him  for  sitting  down  in  the  Inn 

yard  and  beginning  to  teach  a  child  to  read  off  a 
bit  of  Punch  w*"  was  lying  on  the  ground.  Subse- 
quently he  sent  mo  his  pomes  w^  were  rough  but 
contain  the  real  genuine  sacred  flame  I  think.  He 
is  very  learned  :  he  has  evidently  been  crossed  in 
love  :  he  gave  up  his  fellowship  and  university  pros- 
pects on  religious  scruples.  He  is  one  of  those 
thinking  men,  who  I  daresay  will  begin  to  speak  out 
before  many  years  are  over,  and  protest  against 
Gothic  Xtianity — that  is  I  think  he  is.  Did  you 
read  in  F.  Newman's  book?  There  speaks  a  very 
pious  loving  humble  soul  I  think,  with  an  ascetical 
continence  too — and  a  beautiful  love  and  reverence 
. — I'm  a  publican  and  sinner ;  but  I  believe  those 
men  are  on  the  true  track. 


I02  Ecffcre  of  Z^ckc^cxck'^. 

[Paris,  1849] 

They  all  got  a  great  shock  they  told  mc,  by  read- 
ing in  the  Galignani,  that  W.  M.  Thackeray  was 
dead,  and  that  it  was  I.  Indeed  two  W.  Thackeray's 
liave  died  within  the  last  month.  Eh  lien  ?  There's 
a  glum  sort  of  humour  in  all  this  I  think,  and  I  grin 
like  a  skull. — As  I  sent  you  a  letter  to  my  Mamma, 
here  is  a  sermon  to  Annie.  You  will  please  put  it 
in  the  post  for  me  ?  I  think  about  my  dear  honest 
old  Fatty,  with  the  greatest  regard  and  confidence. 
I  hope,  please  God,  she  will  be  kept  to  be  a  com- 
panion and  friend  to  me.  You  see  I  work  in  the 
Herschell. 

Give  my  love  to  Harry  w^hen  you  write  to  him, 
and  to  Mrs.  Fanshawo  and  Missy.  I  haven't  time 
to  transact  letters  to  them  to-day,  or  I  should  use 
our  traveller  who  carries  this  here,  and  glory  in 
saving  2/  by  that  stratagem.  And  I'd  have  you 
know,  Madam,  that  I  wish  I  was  going  to  dine  at 
Portman  Street  as  I  did  this  day  week  ;  but  that  as 
I  can't,  why,  I  will  be  a  man,  and  do  my  duty.  Bun 
suir  William,  ban  aoir  Madame. 

A  FKAOMENT. 

[  1849  ] 

What  you  say  about  ]\Irs. being  doomed  does 

not  affect  me  very  much,  I  am  afraid.     I  don't  see 


betters  of  ^^ac^ctai^.  103 

that  living  is  such  a  benefit,  and  could  find  it  in  my 
heart  pretty  readily  to  have  an  end  of  it, — After 
wasting  a  deal  of  opportunities  and  time  and  desires 
in  vanitarianisiu.  What  is  it  makes  one  so  blase 
and  tired  I  Avonder  at  38  ?  Is  it  pain  or  pleasure  ? 
Present  solitude  or  too  much  company  before  ? 
both  very  likely.  You  sec  I  am  here  as  yesterday, 
gloomy  again,  and  thrumming  on  the  old  egotistical 
string. — But  that  I  think  you  uould  be  pleased  to 
have  a  letter  from  me  dear  lady,  I'd  burn  these  2 
sheets,  or  give  my  blue  devils  some  other  outlet  than 
into  your  kind  heart. 

Here  are  some  verses  which  I  have  been  knocking 
about,  and  are  of  the  same  gloomy  tendency.  You 
must  know  that  I  was  making  a  drawing  which  was 
something  like  you  at  first,  'but  ended  in  a  face 
that  is  not  in  the  least  like  yours  ;  whereupon  the 
Poet  ever  on  the  watch  for  incidents  began  A  Fail- 
ure, 

A  Failure. 

Beneath  this  frank  and  smiling  face. 
You  who  would  look  with  curious  eye 
The  draughtsman's  inward  mind  to  spy, 

Some  other  lineaments  may  trace. 
Ah  !  many  a  time  I  try  and  try 

Lady,  to  represent  their  grace. 


104  feeffcre  of  ^^cicftcmtj. 

Dear  face  !     The  smile  with  which  'tis  lit 
The  mantling  blush,  the  gentle  eyes, 
Each  individual  feature  lies 

Within  my  heart  so  faithful  writ. 
Why  fails  my  pencil  when  it  tries  ? 

(Here  lines  maybe  inserted  Ad  lib.  com- 
plimentary to  the  person) 

I  look  upon  the  altered  lino 

And  think  it  ever  is  my  lot  ; 

A  something  always  comes  to  blot 
And  mar  my  impossible  design — 
A  mocking  Fate  that  bids  me  pine, 

And  struggle  and  achieve  it  not. 


"•oo" 


Poor  baulked  endeavours  incomplete  ! 
Poor  feeble  sketch  the  woi'ld  to  show. 
While  the  marred  truth  lurks  lost  below  ! 

What's  life  but  this  ?  a  cancelled  sheet, 

A  laugh  disguising  a  defeat ! 

Let's  tear  and  laugh  and  own  it  so. 

Exit  with  a  laugh  of  demoniac  scorn. 
But  I  send  the  very  original  drawing, 
to  these  very  original  verses — 


Eeffere  of  ^^acfterap.  /05 

3  Sept.  1849. 

From  Paris, 

Monday. 

The  man  who  was  to  carry  my  letter  yesterday, 
fled  without  giving  me  notice,  so  Madame  loses  the 
sermon  to  Annie,  the  pretty  i^icture,  &c.  I  haven't 
the  courage  to  pay  the  postage  for  so  much  rubbish. 
Isn't  it  curious  that  a  gentleman  of  such  expensive 
habits  sliould  have  this  meanness  about  paper  and 
postage  ?  The  best  is  that  I  have  spent  three  francs 
in  cab-hire,  hunting  for  the  man  who  was  to  carry 
my  two-franc  letter.  The  follies  of  men  are  cease- 
less, even  of  comic  authors,  who  make  it  their  busi- 
ness to  laugh  at  the  follies  of  all  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

What  do  you  think  I  did  yesterday  night  ?  If  you 
l^lease,  ma'am,  I  went  to  the  play  ;  and  I  suppose 
because  it  was  Sunday,  was  especially  diverted,  and 
laughed  so  as  to  make  myself  an  object  in  the  stalls  ; 
but  it  was  at  pure  farcicality,  not  at  wit.  The  piece 
was  about  a  pleasure  excursion  to  London  ;  and  the 
blunders  and  buffooneiy,  mingled,  made  the  laughter. 
"Eh  oui,  nous  irons  a  Greemvich,  manger'  un  excel- 
lent sandioich"  was  a  part  of  one  of  the  songs. 

My  poor  Aunt  is  still  in  life,  but  that  is  all ;  she 
has  quite  lost  her  senses.  I  talked  for  some  time 
with  her  old  husband,  who  has  been  the  most  affec- 
tionate husband  to  her,  and  who  is  looking  on,  he 


io6  £,effer6  of  it^cftera^. 

being  72  years  old  himself,  with  a  calm  resolution 
and  awaiting  the  moment  wliich  is  to  take  away  his 
life's  companion.  .  .  .  As  f or  Pendennis,  I  begair 
\ipou  No.  7  to-day  and  found  a  picture  Avhich  was 
perfectly  new  and  a  passage  which  I  had  as  utterly 
forgotten  as  if  I  had  never  read  or  written  it.  This 
shortness  of  memory  frightens  me,  and  makes  me 
have  gloomy  anticij^ations.  "Will  poor  Annie  have  to 
nurse  an  old  imbecile  of  a  father  some  day,  who  will 
ramble  incoherently  about  old  days  and  people  whom 
he  used  to  love  ?  What  a  shame  it  is  to  talk  such 
gloomy  stuff  to  my  dear  lady  ;  well,  you  are  accus- 
tomed to  hear  my  chatter,  gloomy  or  otherwise,  as  my 
thoughts  go  by.  I  fancy  myself  by  the  dear  old  sofa 
almost,  as  I  sit  here  prating  ;  and  shut  my  eyes  and 
see  3'ou  quite  clear.  I  am  glad  you  have  been  doing 
works  of  art  with  your  needle.     .     .     . 

W.  H.  Ainsworth,  Esquire,  is  here  ;  we  dined  next 
each  other  at  the  ^  Freres  yesterday  and  rather  frat- 
ernized. He  showed  a  friendly  disposition  I  thought, 
and  a  desire  to  forgiv©  me  my  success  ;  but  beyond 
a  good-humoured  acquiescence  in  his  good  will,  I 
don't  care.  I  suppose  one  doesn't  care  for  people, 
only  for  a  very,  very  few,  A  man  came  in  just  now 
who  told  me  he  had  heard  how  I  was  dead.  I  began 
to  laugh,  and  my  laugh  meant,  "  Well  old  fellow, 
you  don't  care,  do  you?"  And  why  should  hej* 
How  often  I  must  have  said  and  said  these  things 


Eeffcrg  of  ^^cfiemp.  loy 

over  to  you.  Qui  Madavie,  je  me  ripite.  Je  me 
fais  vieux  ;  fouhlie ;  je  radote  ;  je  ne  j)0,rle  que  de 
moi.  Je  vousfais  subii'  mon  egoisme,  ma  melanchulie. 
— Le  jour  vicndra-t-il  ou  elle  vous genera?  Ek,  mon 
dieu  ; — ne  soyons  2J'(S  trop  curieux  ;  domain  viendra  ; 
niijourd'hai  j'ouhlierai — -poio'f/uoi  ne  vous  vois-je 
pas  aujour-d'  hui  ?  I  think  you  have  enough  of  this 
for  to-day,  so  good-night.  Good  bye,  j\Ii-,  WilKams. 
I  fancy  the  old  street-sweeper  at  the  corner  is  hold- 
ing the  cob,  I  take  my  hat  and  stick,  I  say  good 
bye  again,  the  door  bangs  finally.  Here's  a  shilling 
for  you,  old  street-sweeper ;  the  cob  trots  solitary 
into  the  Park.  Je  fais  de  la  lillerature,  ma  ^jarole 
d'  honnear  I — da  dijle — du  Sterne  tout  pur — 0  vanitas 
vanitatum  !     God  bless  all, 

W.  M.  T. 

{Ath  Sept.   1849] 

Tuesday,  Paris. 
Perhaps  by  ray  intolerable  meanness  and  blunder- 
ing, you  will  not  get  any  letter  from  me  till  to-morrow. 
On  Sunday,  the  man  who  was  to  take  the  letter 
failed  me  ;  yesterday  I  went  with  it  in  a  cab  to  the 
Grande  Poste,  which  is  a  mile  off,  and  where  j'ou 
have  to  go  to  pay.  The  cab  horse  was  lame,  and  we 
arrived  two  minutes  too  late  ;  I  put  the  letter  into 
the  unpaid-letter  box  ;  I  dismissed  the  poor  old 
broken  cab  horse,  behind  which  it  was  agonizing  to 
sit ;  in  fine  it  was  a  failure. 


io8  Eeffere  of  ^^adterai?. 

Whcu  I  got  to  tliuncr  at  my  aunt's,  I  found  all  was 
over.  Mrs.  H.  died  ou  Sunday  night  in  her  sleep, 
quite  without  pain,  or  any  knowledge  of  the  transi- 
tion. I  went  and  sat  with  her  husband,  an  old  fellow 
of  sevent^'-two,  and  found  him  bearing  his  calamity 
in  a  very  honest  manly  way.  "What  do  you  think  the 
old  gentleman  was  doing?  Well,  he  Avas  drinking 
gin  and  water,  and  I  had  some  too,  telling  his  valet 
to  make  me  some.  Man  thought  this  was  a  mastei*- 
stroke  of  diplomacy  and  evidently  thinks  I  have 
ai'rived  to  take  possession  as  heir,  but  I  know  noth- 
ing about  money  matters  as  yet,  and  think  that  the 
old  gentleman  at  least  will  have  the  enjoyment  of  my 
aunt's  property  during  life.  He  told  me  some  family 
secrets,  in  which  persons  of  repute  figure  not  honor- 
ably. Ah !  they  shock  one  to  think  of.  Pray,  have 
you  ever  committed  any  roguery  in  money  matters  ? 
Has  William?  Have  I  ?  I  am  more  likely  to  do  it 
than  he,  that  honest  man,  not  having  his  resolution 
or  self-denial.  But  I've  not  as  yet,  beyond  the 
roguery  of  not  saving  perhaps,  which  is  knavish  too. 
I  am  very  glad  I  came  to  see  my  dearest  old  aunt. 
She  is  such  a  kind  tender  creature,  laws  bless  us,  how 
fond  she  would  be  of  you.  I  was  going  to  begin 
about  William  and  say,  '  do  you  remember  a  friend 
of  mine  who  came  to  dine  at  the  Thermes,  and  sang 
the  song  about  the  Mogul,  and  the  blue-bottle  fly,* 
but  modesty  forbade  and  I  was  dumb. 


betters  of  ^^ocftcrag.  109 

Since  this  was  written  iu  the  afternoon  I  suppose 
if  there  has  been  one  virtuous  man  in  Paris  it  is 
niadame's  most  ohajlcnt  servant.  I  went  to  sit  with 
Mr.  H.  and  found  him  taking  what  he  calls  his  tiffin 
in  great  comfort  (tiffin  is  the  meal  which  I  have  some- 
times had  the  honor  of  sharing  with  you  at  one 
o'clock)  and  this  transacted, — and  I  didn't  have  any 
tiffin,  having  consumed  a  good  breakfast  two  hours 
previously — I  went  up  a  hundred  stairs  at  least,  to 
Miss.  B.  H.'s  airy  apartment,  and  found  her  and  her 
sistei',  and  sat  for  an  hour.  She  asked  after  you  so 
warmly  that  I  was  quite  pleased  ;  she  said  she  had 
the  highest  respect  for  you,  and  I  was  glad  to  find 
somebody  who  kneAV  you  ;  and  all  I  can  say  is,  if  you 
fancy  I  like  being  here  better  than  in  London,  you 
are  in  a  pleasing  error  ; 

Then  I  went  to  see  a  friend  of  my  mother's,  then 
to  have  a  very  good  tjinuer  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris, 
where  I  had  poUifje  d  la  pourjxirl,  think  of  i)ourpart 
soup.  We  had  it  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  name, 
and  it  was  uncommonly  good.  Then  back  to  old  H. 
again,  to  bawl  into  his  ears  for  an  hour  and  a  half  ; 
then  to  drink  tea  with  my  aunt — why,  life  has  been  a 
series  of  sacrifices  today,  and  I  must  be  written  up 
in  the  book  of  good  works.  For  I  should  have  liked 
to  go  to  the  play,  and  follow  my  own  devices  best, 
but  for  that  stern  sentiment  of  duty,  which  fitfully 
comes  over  the  most  abandoned  of  men,  at  times. 


no  £cfter6  cf  ^^fierag. 

All  the  time  I  was  with  'Six.  H.  iu  the  morning,  what 
do  you  think  they  were  doing  iu  the  next  room  ?  It 
was  like  a  novel.  They  were  rapping  at  a  coffin  in 
the  bedroom,  but  he  was  too  deaf  to  hear,  and  seems 
too  old  to  care  very  much.  Ah  !  dear  lady,  I  hope 
you  are  sleeping  happily  at  this  hour,  and  you,  and 
Ml'.  "Williams,  and  another  party  who  is  namelesS) 
shall  have  all  the  benefits  of  an  old  sinner's  prayers. 
I  sujipose  I  was  too  virtuous  on  Tuesday,  for  yes- 
terday I  got  back  to  my  old  selfish  ways  again,  and 
did  what  I  liked  from  morning  till  night.  This  self 
indulgence  though  entire  Avas  not  criminal,  at  first 
at  least,  but  I  shall  come  to  the  painful  part  of  my 
memoirs  presently.  All  the  forenoon  I  read  with  in- 
tense delight,  a  novel  called  Le  Vicomte  de  Brage- 
lonne,  a  continuation  of  the  famous  Mousquetaires  and 
just  as  interesting,  keeping  one  panting  from  volume 
to  volume,  and  longing  for  more.  This  done,  and 
after  a  walk  and  some  visits,  read  more  novels,  David 
Gopperfield  to  wit,  in  which  there  is  a  charming  bit 
of  insanity,  and  which  I  begin  to  believe  is  the  very 
best  thing  the  author  has  yet  done.  Then  to  the 
Varietes  Theatre,  to  see  the  play  Chavieleon,  after 
which  all  Paris  is  running,  a  general  satire  upon  the 
la.st  60  years.  Everything  is  satirised,  Louis  XVI, 
the  Convention,  the  Empire,  the  Ilestoration  etc. ,  the 
barricades,  at  which  these  peoi^le  were  murdering 
each  other  only  yesterday — it's   awful,    immodest, 


£eff er0  of  ^^fterag.  / '  / 

surpasses  my  cynicism  altogether.  At  the  end  of  the 
piece  they  pretend  to  bring  in  the  author  and  a  httle 
child  Avho  can  just  speak,  comes  in  and  sings  a  sa- 
tiric song,  in  a  feeble,  tender,  infantine  pipe,  which 
seemed  to  me  as  impious  as  the  whole  of  the  rest  of 
the  piece.  They  don't  care  for  anything,  not  relig- 
ion, not  bravery,  not  liberty,  not  great  men,  not 
modesty.  Ah  !  madame,  what  a  great  moralist  some- 
body is,  and  what  moighly  fuina  principles  enloirely 
he  has ! 

But  now,  with  a  blush  upon  my  damask  cheek,  I 
come  to  the  adventures  of  the  day.  You  must  know 
I  went  to  the  play  with  an  old  comrade,  Roger  de 
Beauvoii',  an  ex-dandy  and  man  of  letters,  who  talked 
incessantly  during  the  whole  of  dinner  time,  as  I 
remember,  though  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  recall 
what  he  said.  AYell  we  went  together  to  the  play, 
and  he  took  me  where  William  would  long  to  go,  to 
the  green-room.  I  have  never  been  in  a  French 
green-room  before,  and  was  not  much  excited,  but 
when  he  proposed  to  take  me  up  to  the  logc  of  a 
beautiful  actress  with  sparkling  eyes  and  the  i:)retti- 
est  little  retrousse  nosey-posey  in  the  world,  I  said  to 
the  regisseitr  of  the  tlieatre  '  lead  on ' !  and  we  went 
through  passages  and  up  stairs  to  the  loge,  which 
is  not  a  box,  but  O !  gracious  goodness,  a  dressing 
room ! 

She  had  just  taken  off  her  rouge,  her  complex- 


112  £,ettcr6  of  ^^ocfterag. 

ion  was  only  a  thousand  times  more  brilliant,  perhaps, 
the  peignoir  of  black  satin  which  partially  enveloped 
her  perfect  form,  only  served  to  heighten  &c,  which 
it  could  but  partially  do  &c.  Her  lij^s  are  really  as 
red  as  &c,  and  not  covered  with  paint  at  all.  Her 
voice  is  delicious,  her  eyes,  O  !  they  flashed  &c  upon 
me,  and  I  felt  my  &c,  beating  so  that  I  could  hard- 
ly speak.  I  pitched  in,  if  you  will  permit  me  the 
phrase,  two  or  three  compliments  however,  very 
large  and  heavy,  of  the  good  old  English  sort,  and  0! 
mon  dieu  she  has  asked  me  to  go  and  see  her.  Shall 
I  go,  or  shan't  I?  Shall  I  go  this  very  day  at  4 
o'clock,  or  shall  I  not?  Well,  I  won't  tell  you,  I  will 
put  up  my  letter  before  4,  and  keep  this  piece  of  in- 
telligence for  the  next  packet. 

The  funeral  takes  place  to-morrow,  and  as  I  don't 
seem  to  do  much  work  here,  I  shall  be  soon  proba- 
bly on  the  wing,  but  perhaps  I  will  take  a  week's 
touring  somewhere  about  France,  Tours  and  Nantes 
perhaps  or  elsewhere,  or  anywhere,  I  don't  know, 
but  I  hoi^e  before  I  go  to  hear  once  more  from  you. 
I  am  happy  indeed  to  hear  how  well  you  are.  What 
a  shame  it  was  to  assault  my  dear  lady  with  my  blue 
devils.  Who  could  help  looking  to  the  day  of  fail- 
ing powers,  but  if  I  last  a  few  years,  no  doubt  I  can 
get  a  shelter  somewhere  against  that  certain  adver- 
sity, and  so  I  ought  not  to  show  you  my  glum  face 
or  my  dismal  feelings.     That's  the  worst  of  habit 


Eetfere  of  ^^ocfierai?.  //i 

and  confidence.  You  are  so  kind  to  me  that  I  like 
to  tell  you  all,  and  to  think  that  in  good  or  ill  for- 
tune I  have  your  sympathy.  Here's  an  opportunity 
for  sentiment,  here's  just  a  little  bit  of  the  page  left 
to  say  something  neat  and  pretty.  Je  les  meprise 
k'sjolis  motf<,  vous  en  ai-je  jamais  fail  de  ma  vie?  Je 
les  laisse  d  Monsieur  Bullar  et  ses  imreils—fen  ferai 
pour  Mademoiselle  Page,  ijour  la  ravissante  la  semil- 
lante  la  fretillante  Adtle  {c'est  ainsi  qu'elle  se  nomme) 
mais  pour  vous?  Allons — partons  —  il  est  quatre 
heures—fermons  la  lettre — disons  adieu,  Vamie  et  moi 
— vous  m'ecrirez  avayit  mon  depart  n'est  ce  pas  ?  Al- 
lez  bien,  dormez  hien,  marchez  Men,  s'il  vous  plait,  et 
gardij  mxoaio  ung  petty  moreso  de  voter  cure. 

W.  M.  T. 

Paris,  [1849] 
As  my  mother  wants  a  line  from  me,  and  it  would 
cost  me  no  more  to  write  on  two  half  sheets  than 
one  whole  one,  common  economy  suggests  that  I 
should  write  you  a  line  to  say  that  I  am  pretty  well, 
and  leading,  as  before,  a  dismal  but  dutiful  life.  I 
go  and  sit  with  the  old  Scotch  widower  every  night, 
and  with  my  aunt  afterwards.  This  isn't  very  amus- 
ing, but  the  sense  of  virtue  and  self-denial  tickles 
one,  as  it  were,  and  I  come  home  rather  pleased  to 
my  bed  of  a  night.  I  shall  stay  here  for  a  few  days 
more.  My  tour  will  be  to  Boulogne,  probably, 
8 


/ 14  ^tff ctB  of  t^^cic^era^. 

whei-e  I  shan't  find  the  Crowes,  who  are  going  away, 
but  shall  have  Mrs.  Procter  ;  and  next  week  will  see 
me  back  in  London  probably,  working  away  as  in 
the  old  way. 

Yesterday  I  went  a  little  w\ay  into  the  country  to 
see  Miss  R's  husband,  my  old  friend  S.  They  have 
just  got  a  little  son,  a  beautiful  child,  and  the  hap- 
piness of  this  couple  was  pleasant,  albeit  somehow 
i:»ainful,  to  witness.  She  is  a  very  nice,  elegant  ac- 
complished young  lady,  adoring  her  Augustus,  who 
is  one  of  the  best  and  kindest  of  old  snobs.  We 
walked  across  vines  to  the  coach  at  half  past  seven 
o'clock,  after  an  evening  of  two  hours  and  a  half, 
which  was  quite  enough  for  me.  She  is  a  little 
thing,  and  put  me  in  mind  of  my  own  wife  some- 
how. Give  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  with  my  respectful 
love,  a  good  account  of  her  cousin.  I  am  bound  to- 
day to  another  country  place,  but  don't  like  the 
idea  of  it.  Tomorrow  I  dine  with  Mr.  T.  B.  Macau- 
lay,  who  is  staying  in  this  hotel. 

And  what  else  has  happened  ?  I  have  been  to  see 
the  actress,  who  received  us  in  a  yellow  satin  draw- 
ing room,  and  who  told  me  that  she  had  but  one 
fault  in  the  world,  tliat  slio  had  li'op  hon  aeur,  and  I 
am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  jiitclied  in  still  stronger 
compliments  than  before,  and  I  daresay  that  she 
thinks  the  enormous  old  Englishman  is  rapturously 
in  love  with  her ;  but  she  will  never  sec  him  again. 


feefterg  of  ^^cfterai?.  /  /5 

that  faithless  giant.  I  am  past  the  age  when  Foth- 
eringays  inflame,  but  I  shall  pop  her  and  her  bou- 
doix'  into  a  book  some  da}',  and  that  will  be  the  end 
of  our  transactions.  A  good  character  for  a  book 
accompanied  us  to  the  funeral,  an  expatriated  par- 
son, veiy  pompous,  and  feeble-minded  :  who  gets  his 
living  by  black  jobs  entirely  and  attends  all  the 
funerals  of  our  countrymen  ;  he  has  had  a  pretty 
good  season  and  is  tolerably  cheerful,  I  was  struck 
by  "  Behold  I  show  you  a  mystery  "  and  the  noble 
words  subsequent,  but  my  impression  is,  that  St. 
Paul  fully  believed  that  the  end  of  things  and  the 
triumph  of  his  adored  master,  was  to  take  place  in 
his  own  time,  or  the  time  of  those  round  about  him. 
Surely  St.  John  had  the  same  feeling,  and  I  suppose 
that  this  secret  passed  fondly  among  the  initiated, 
and  that  they  died  hoping  for  its  fulfilment.  Is  this 
heresy?     Let  his  reverence  tell  me. 

Madame,  if  you  will  be  so  diffident  about  your  com- 
positions there  is  no  help  for  it.  Your  letter  made 
me  laugh  very  much,  and  therefore  made  me  happy. 
When  I  saw  that  nice  little  Mrs.  S.  with  her  child 
3'esterday,  of  course  I  thought  about  somebody  else. 
The  tones  of  a  mother's  voice  speaking  to  an  infant, 
play  the  deuce  with  me  somehow  ;  that  charming 
nonsense  and  tenderness  work  upon  me  until  I  feel 
like  a  woman  or  a  great  big  baby  myself, — fiddlede- 
dee.     .     .     . 


/ 16  feeftere  of  ^^ftcm^. 

And  here  the  paper  is  full  and  we  come  to  the 

final  G.  B.  Y. 

I  am  always, 

W.  M.  T. 

[  Paris,  September  14,  1849  ] 

My  dear  Lady  : 

This  letter  doesn't  count,  though  it's  most  prohbly 
the  last  of  the  series.  Yesterday  I  couldn't  write 
for  I  went  to  Chambourey  early  in  the  morning  to 
Bee  those  two  poor  Miss  Powers,  and  the  poor  old 
faded  and  unhappy  D'Orsay,  and  I  did  not  return 
home  till  exactly  1  minute  before  post  time,  perhaps 
2  late  for  the  letter  which  I  flung  into  the  post  last 
night.  And  so  this  is  the  last  of  the  letters  and  I 
am  coming  back  immediately.  The  last  anything  is 
unpleasant.     .     .     . 

I  was  to  have  gone  to-morrow  for  certain  to  Bou- 
logne, at  least,  but  a  party  to  Fontainebleau  was 
proposed — by  whom  do  you  think  ? — by  the  Presi- 
dent himself,  I  am  going  to  dine  with  him  to-day, 
think  of  that !  I  believe  I  write  this  for  the  pur- 
pose solely  of  telling  you  this, — the  truth  is  I  have 
made  acquaintance  here  with  Lord  Douglas,  who  is 
very  good  natured,  and  I  suppose  has  been  instigat- 
ing the  President  to  these  hospitalities.  I  am  afraid 
I  disgusted  Macaulay  yesterday  at  dinner,  at  Sir 
George  Napier's.     We  were  told  that  an  American 


£effer6  of  ^^oc^erac.  //7 

lady  wa3  coming  in  the  evening,  whose  great  desire 
in  life,  was  to  meet  the  author  of  Vanity  Fair,  and 
the  author  of  the  Laj/s  of  A.  Home,  so  I  proposed  to 
Macaulay  to  enact  me,  and  to  let  me  take  his  char- 
acter. But  he  said  solemnly,  that  he  did  not  ap- 
prove of  practical  jokes,  and  so  this  sj)ort  did  not 
come  to  pass.  Well,  I  shall  see  3'ou  at  any  rate, 
some  day  before  the  23d.,  and  I  hope  you  will  be 
happy  at  Southampton  enjoying  the  end  of  the  au- 
tumn, and  I  shall  bo  glad  to  smoke  a  pipe  with  old 
]\Ii\  Williams  too,  for  I  don't  care  for  new  acquaint- 
ances, whatever  some  people  say,  and  have  only 
your  house  now  where  I  am  completely  at  home.  I 
have  been  idle  here,  but  I  have  done  plenty  of  du- 
tif ulness,  haven't  I  ?  I  must  go  dress  myself  and 
tell  old  Dr.  Halliday  that  I  am  going  to  dine  with 
the  President,  that  will  please  him  more  than  even 
my  conversation  this  evening,  and  the  event  will 
be  written  over  to  all  the  family  before  long,  be 
sure  of  that.  Don't  you  think  Mr.  Parr  will  like  to 
know  it,  and  that  it  will  put  me  well  with  him  ? 
Perhaps  I  shall  find  the  grand  cross  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor  under  my  plate,  I  will  put  it  on  and 
come  to  you  in  it  in  that  case. 

I  was  going  to  have  the  impudence  to  give  you  a 
daguerreotype  of  myself  which  has  been  done  here, 
very  like  and  droll  it  looks,  but  it  seemed  to  me  too 
impertinent,  and  I  gave  it  to  somebody  else.     I've 


ii8  &effer0  of  ^3<*cfterag. 

bought  William  four  glasses  to  drink  beer  out  of, 
since  I  never  can  get  one  of  the  silver  ones  when  I 
come  ;  don't  let  him  be  alarmed,  these  only  cost  a 
shilling  apiece,  and  two  such  loves  of  eau  de  Cologne 
bottles  for  Mrs.  Procter,  and  for  my  dear  Mrs. 
Brookfield  I  have  bought  a  diamond  necklace  and 
earrings, — I  have  bought  you  nothing  but  the  hand- 
kerchiefs but  I  hoj)e  you  will  let  me  give  you  those, 
won't  you  ? 

I  was  very  sorry  for  Turpiu,  I  do  feel  an  interest 
in  her,  and  I  think  she  is  very  pretty,  all  this  I  sol- 
emnly vow  and  protest.  My  paper  is  out,  here's  the 
last  corner  of  the  last  letter.  I  wonder  who  will  ask 
me  to  dine  on  Monday  next 


October  31st.     [  1849  ] 

My  dear  Monsieur  et  Madame  : 

Harry  says  that  you  won't  eat  your  dinner  well  if 
I  don't  write  and  tell  you  that  I  am  thriving,  and 
though  I  don't  consider  this  a  letter  at  all  but  sim- 
ply a  message,  I  have  to  state  that  I  am  doing  ex- 
ceedingly well,  that  I  ate  a  mutton  chop  just  now 
in  Harry's  presence  with  great  gusto,  that  I  slept  12 
hours  last  night  and  in  fact  advance  by  steps  which 
grow  every  day  more  firm  toward  convalescence. 
If  you  will  both  come  down  here  I  will  give  you 


£eftcr0  of  ^^cfterap.  ng 

beautiful  rooms  and  the  best  of  mutton. — I  sball 
stop  till  Monday  certainly,  after  which  I  may  prob- 
ably go  to  the  club. 

G.  B.  Y.  Both  on  you. 

W.  M.  T. 

{Dec:  1849] 

My  dear  Lady : 

The  weather  is  so  fine  and  cheerful  that  I  have 
made  my  mind  up  to  go  down  to  Brighton  tomor- 
row, or  somewhere  where  I  can  be  alone,  and  think 
about  my  friend  Mr.  Pendennis,  whom  I  have  been 
forced  to  neglect.  I  have  been  working  now  until 
seven  o'clock  and  am  dead  beat,  having  done  a  poor 
dawdling  day's  work,  writing  too  much,  hipped, 
hacked  and  blue-devilled.  I  passed  Portman  Street 
after  an  hour's  ride  in  'the  Park  but  hadn't  time  to 
come  in,  the  infernal  taskmaster  hanging  over  me  ; 
so  I  gave  my  bridle  reius  a  shake  and  plunged  into 
doggerel.  Good  bye  God  bless  you,  come  soon 
back  both  of  you.  Write  to  me  won't  you  ?  I  wish 
a  Merry  Christmas  for  you  and  am 

always  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 

FRAGMENT. 

[Clm^tauu,  1849] 

I  stop  in  the  middle  of  Costigan  with  a  remark 
applied  to  readers  of  Thomas  a  Kempis  and  others, 


I20  £etter0  of  Z^Xkc^txci^, 

■which  is,  I  think,  that  cushion-thumpers  and  High 
and  Low  Church  extatics.  have  often  carried  what 
they  call  theii'  love  for  A  to  what  seeros  impertinence 
to  me.  How  good  my has  been  to  me  in  send- 
ing me  a  back  ache, — how  good  in  taking  it  away, 
how  blessed  the  spiritual  gift  which  enabled  me  to 
receive  the  sermon  this  morning, — how  trying  my 
dryness  at  this  afternoon's  discourse,  &c.  I  say  it 
is  awful  and  blasphemous  to  be  calling  upon  Heav- 
en to  interfere  about  the  thousand  trivialities  of  a 
man's  life,  that has  ordered  me  something  in- 
digestible for  dinner,  (which  may  account  for  my 
dryness  in  the  afternoon's  discourse)  ;  to  say  that  it 
is  Providence  that  sends  a  draught  of  air  uj)on  me 
which  gives  me  a  cold  in  the  head,  or  superintends 
personally  the  action  of  the  James'  powder  which 
makes  me  well.  Bow  down.  Confess,  Adore,  Admire, 
and  Reverence  infinitely.  Make  your  act  of  faith 
and  trust.  Acknowledge  with  constant  awe  the  idea 
of  the  infinite  Presence  over  all. — But  what  impu- 
dence it  is  in  us,  to  talk  about  loving  God  enough, 
if  I  may  so  sj)eak.  Wretched  little  blindlings,  what 
do  we  know  about  Him  ?  Who  says  that  we  are 
to  sacrifice  the  human  affections  as  disrespectful  to 
God?  The  liars,  the  wretched  canting  fakirs  of 
Christianism,  the  convent  and  conventicle  dervishes, 
— they  are  only  less  unreasonable  now  than  the  Ere- 
mites and   holy   women  who  whipped  and  starved 


£efter0  cf  ^^ocfierai^.  i2r 

themselves,  never  washed,  and  encouraged  vermin 
for  the  glory  of  God.  Washing  is  allowed  now,  and 
bodily  filth  and  pain  not  always  enjoined  ;  but  still 
they  say,  shut  your  ears  and  don't  hear  music,  close 
your  eyes  and  don't  see  nature  and  beauty,  steel 
your  hearts  and  be  ashamed  of  your  love  for  your 
neighbour  ;  and  timid  fond  souls  scared  by  their 
curses,  and  bending  before  their  unending  arro- 
gance and  dulness,  consent  to  be  miserable,  and 
bai'e  their  soft  shoulders  for  the  brutes'  stripes,  ac- 
cording to  the  nature  of  women.  You  dear  Suttees, 
■  ^'ou  get  ready  and  glorify  in  being  martyrized.  Nat- 
ure, truth,  love,  protest  day  after  day  in  your  ten- 
der hearts  against  the  stupid  remorseless  tyranny 
which  bullies  you.  Why  you  dear  creature,  what  a 
history  that  is  in  the  Thomas  a  Kempis  book  !  The 
scheme  of  that  book  carried  out  would  make  the 
world  the  most  wretched,  useless,  dreary,  doting 
place  of  sojourn — there  would  be  no  manhood,  no 
love,  no  tender  ties  of  mother  and  child,  no  use  of 
intellect,  no  trade  or  science,  a  set  of  selfish  beings 
crawling  about  avoiding  one  another  and  howling  a 
perpetual  miserere.  We  know  that  deductions  like 
this  have  been  drawn  from  the  teaching  of  J.  C,  but 
please  God  the  world  is  preparing  to  throw  them 
over,  and  I  won't  believe  them  though  they  are  writ- 
ten in  ever  so  many  books,  any  more  than  that  the 
sky  is  green  or  the  grass  red.     Those  brutes  made 


122  £eftet0  of  ^^acfterag. 

the  grass  red  many  a  time,  fancying  they  were  act- 
ing rightly,  amongst  others  with  the  blood  of  the 
person  Avho  was  born  today.  Good-bye  my  dear 
ladj-^  and  my  dear  old  WilHam. 


FRAGMENT. 

[  1850  ] 

I  was  too  tired  to  talk  to  Madam  when  I  sent  away 
the  packet  of  MS  to-day.  I'm  not  much  better  now, 
only  using  her  as  pastime  at  a  club  half  an  hour  be- 
fore dinner.  That's  the  way  we  use  women.  Well, 
I  was  rather  pleased  with  the  manuscript  I  sent  you 
to-day,  it  seems  to  me  to  be  good  comedy,  my  moth- 
er would  have  acted  in  just  such  a  way  if  I  had  run 
away  with  a  naughty  woman,  that  is  I  hope  she 
would,  though  perhaps  she  is  prouder  than  I  am 
myself.  I  read  over  the  first  part  of  Fendennis  to- 
day, all  the  Emily  Costigan  part,  and  liked  it,  I 
am  glad  to  say ;  but  I  am  shocked  to  think  that  I 
had  forgotten  it,  and  read  it  almost  as  a  new  book. 
I  remembered  allusions  which  called  back  recol- 
lections of  particular  states  of  mind.  The  first 
part  of  that  book  was  written  after  Clevedon  in 
1848.     .     .     . 

What  a  wholesome  thing  fierce  mental  occupation 
is!  Better  than  dissipation  to  take  thoughts  out  of 
one  ;  only  one  can't  always  fix  the  mind  down  and 


other  thoughts  will  bother  it.  Yesterday  I  sat  for 
six  hours  and  could  do  no  work  ;  I  wasn't  senti- 
mentalizing but  I  couldn't  get  the  pen  to  go,  and 
at  four,  rode  out  into  the  country  and  saw,  whom 
do  you  think  ?  O !  Idche,  coward,  sneak,  and  traitor, 
that  pretty  Mrs.  M.  I  wrote  you  about.  The  night 
before  in  the  same  waj',  restless  and  wandering 
aventurier  (admire  my  constant  use  of  French  terms), 
I  went  to  Mrs.  Prinsep's  and  saw  Virginia,  then  to 
Miss  Berrys'  and  talked  to  Lord  Lansdowne  who 
was  very  jolly  and  kind. 

Then  to  Lady  Ashburtou,  where  were  Jocelyns 
just  come  back  from  Paris,  my  lady  in  the  prettiest 
wreath. — We  talked  about  the  Gorham  controversy, 
I  think,  and  when  the  Jocelyns  were  gone  about 
John  Mill's  noble  Article  in  the  Westminster  lievieiv  ; 
an  article  which  you  mustn't  read,  because  it  will 
shock  your  dear  convictions,  but  wherein,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  a  great  soul  speaks  great  truths  ;  it  is  time 
to  begin  speaking  truth  I  think.  Lady  Ashburton 
saj's  not.  Our  Lord  spoke  it  and  was  killed  for  it, 
and  Stephen,  and  Paul,  who  slew  Stej)hen.  We 
shuffle  and  compromise  and  have  Gorham  contro- 
versies and  say,  "let  things  go  on  smoothly,"  and 
Jock  Campbell  writes  to  the  Mother-Superior,  and 
Milman  makes  elegant  after-dinner  speeches  at  the 
Mansion    House — humbupfs   all !      I   am   becoming 


'^4  £efter6  of  ^^odlera^. 

very  stupid  and  rabid,  dinner-time  is  come ;  such  a 
good  dinner,  truth  be  hanged  !  Let  us  go  to  Port- 
land Place. 

[  July,  1850  ] 

My  dear  Lady : 

I  have  had  a  bad  week  and  a  most  cruel  time  of 
it  this  month  ;  my  groans  were  heart-rending,  my 
sufferings  immense;  I  thought  No.  XIX  would 
never  be  born  ahve ; — It  is,  but  stupid,  ricketty,  and 
of  feeble  intellect,  I  fear.  Isn't  that  a  pretty  ob- 
stetrical metaphor?  "Well,  I  supj)ose  I  couldn't  get 
on  because  I  hadn't  you  to  come  and  grumble  to. 
You  see  habit  does  so  much,  and  though  there  is 
Blanche  Stanley  to  be  sure,  yet  shall  I  tell  you, — I 
will  though  perhaps  you  won't  believe  it — I  haven't 
been  there  for  a  month.  And  what  a  singular  thing 
it  is  about  my  dear  friend  Miss  F. — that  I  never 
spoke  to  her  but  once  in  my  life  when  I  think  the 
weather  was  our  subject — and  as  for  telling  her  that 
I  had  drawn  Amelia  from  apybody  of  our  acquaint- 
ance I  should  have  as  soon  thought  of — of  what? 
I  have  been  laboriously  crossing  all  my  t's,  see,  and 
thinking  of  a  simile.  But  it's  good  fun  about  poor 
little  B.  Does  any  body  su})pose  I  should  be  such 
an  idiot  as  to  write  verses  to  her  ?  I  never  wrote 
her  a  line.  I  once  drew  one  picture  in  her  music 
book,  a   caricature  of  a  spoony  song,  in  which  I 


£efter0  of  ^^ocftem^.  12^ 

laiiglied  at  licr,  as  lias  been  my  practice — alas  !  .  .  . 
The  only  person  to  whom  I  remember  having  said 
anything  about  Amelia  was  the  late  Mrs.  Bancroft, 
as  I  told  you,  and  that  was  by  a  surprise. 

Yesterday  after  a  hard  day's  labour  went  out  to 
Richmond  ;  dined  with  old  Miss  Berrys.  Lord 
Brougham  there,  enormously  good  fun,  boiling  over 
with  humour  and  mischief,  the  best  and  wickedest 
old  fellow  I've  met,  I  think.  And  I  was  better  in 
health  than  I've  been  for  a  fortnight  past.  O  !  how 
I  should  like  to  come  on  Sunday  by  the  Excursion 
train,  price  5/,  and  shake  hands  and  come  back 
again  !  I've  been  working  Pen  all  the  morning  and 
reading  back  numbers  in  order  to  get  up  names  &c., 
I'd  forgotten.  I  lit  upon  a  very  stupid  part  I'm 
sorry  to  say  ;  and  yet  how  well  written  it  is !  What 
a  shame  the  author  don't  write  a  complete  good  story. 
Will  he  die  before  doing  so?  or  come  back  from 
America  and  do  it  ? — 

And  now  on  account  of  the  confounded  post  regu- 
lations— I  shan't  be  able  to  hear  a  word  of  you  till 
Tuesday.  It's  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  cut  2  days  out 
of  our  week  as  the  Pharisees  do — and  I'll  never  for- 
give Lord  John  Russell,  never. — The  young  ladies 
are  now  getting  ready  to  walk  abroad  with  their  dear 
Par. — It  is  but  a  hasty  letter  I  send  you  dear  lady, 
but  my  hand  is  weary  with  writing  Pendennis — and 
my  head  boiliug  up  with  some  nonsense  that  I  must 


126  £efter6  of  ^^acfierai?. 

do  after  dinner  for  Punch.  Isn't  it  strange  that,  in 
the  midst  of  all  the  selfishness,  that  one  of  doing 
one's  business,  is  the  strongest  of  all.  What  funny 
songs  I've  written  when  fit  to  hang  myself !  ^ 

Thursday. 

As  I  am  not  to  come  back  till  Saturday,  and  lest 
you  should  think  that  any  illness  had  befallen  me, 
dear  lady,  I  send  you  a  little  note.  This  place  is  as 
handsome  as  man  could  desire  ;  the  park  beautiful, 
the  quizeen  and  drinks  excellent,  the  landlord  most 
polite  and  good  natured,  with  a  very  winning  sim- 
plicity of  manner  and  bonhomie,  and  the  small  select 
party  tolerably  pleasant.  Charles  Villiers,  a  bitter 
Voltairian  joker,  who  always  surprises  one  into  laugh- 
ter ; — Peacock — did  you  ever  read  Headlong  Hall  and 
Maid  Marian  ? — a  charming  lyrical  poet  and  Hora- 
tian  satirist  he  was  when  a  writer ;  now  he  is  a  white- 
lieaded  jolly  old  worldling,  and  Secretary  to  the  E. 
India  House,  full  of  information  about  India  and 
everything  else  in  the  world.  There  are  4  or  5  more, 
2  young  lords, — one  extremely  pleasant,  gentleman- 
like, and  modest,  who  has  seen  battles  in  India  and 
gives  himself  not  the  least  airs ; — and  there  are  the 
young  ladies,  2  pretty  Uttle  girls,  Avith  whom  I  don't 
get  on  very  well  though, — nor  indeed  with  anybody 
over  Avell.  There's  something  wanting,  I  can't  tell 
you  what ;  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  on  the  home- 


ward  way  again,  but  they  wouldn't  hear  of  my  going 
on  Frida}',  and  it  was  only  by  a  strong  effort  that  I 
could  get  leave  for  Saturday. 

This  paper  you  see  is  better,  I  bought  it  regard- 
less of  expense — half  a  ream  of  it,  at  Bristol. 

That  Bristol  terminus  is  a  confounding  place.  I 
missed  the  train  I  was  to  go  by,  had  very  nearly 
gone  to  Exeter  and  was  oljliged  to  post  twenty-five 
miles  in  the  dark,  from  Chippenham,  in  order  to  get 
here  too  late  for  dinnei'.  Whilst  I  am  writing  to  you 
what  am  I  thinking  of?  Something  else  to  be  sure, 
and  have  a  doggrel  ballad  about  a  yellow  "Post 
Chay  "  running  in  my  head  which  I  ought  to  do  for 
Mr.  Punch. 

We  went  to  the  little  church  yesterday,  where  in 
a  great  pew  with  a  fire  in  it,  I  said  the  best  i^ray- 
ers  I  could  for  them  as  I  am  fond  of.  I  wish  one 
of  them  would  get  well.  ...  I  must  give  my 
young  ones  three  or  four  weeks  of  Paris  and  may  go 
a  travelling  myself  during  that  time  ;  for  I  think  my 
dear  old  mother  will  be  happier  with  the  children 
and  without  their  father,  and  will  like  best  to  have 
them  all  to  herself.  Mon  dieu,  is  that  the  luncheon 
bell  already  ?  I  was  late  at  dinner  yesterday,  and  late 
at  breakfast  this  morning.  It  is  eating  and  idling  all 
day  long,  but  not  altogether  profitless  idling,  I  have 
seen  winter  woods,  winter  landscapes,  a  kennel  of 
hounds,  jolly  sportsmen  riding   out   a   hunting,  a 


128  feeffere  of  ^^ocfterai?. 

queer  little  country  claurcli  'with  a  clioir  not  in  sur- 
plices but  in  smock-frocks,  and  man}'  a  sight  pleas- 
ant to  think  on. — I  must  go  to  lunch  and  finish  af- 
ter, both  with  my  dear  lady  and  the  yellow  po'chay. 
Will  ]\Ii'.  and  Mrs.  Brookfield  come  and  dine  with 
IMr.  Thackeray  on  Saturday  ?  He  will  arrive  by  the 
train  which  reaches  London  at  5.25,  and  it  would  be 
very,  very  pleasant  if  you  could  come — or  one  of 
you,  man  or  W'oman.  Meanwhile  I  close  up  my 
packet  with  a  g.  b.  y.  to  my  dear  lady  and  a  kiss  to 
Miss  Brookfield,  and  go  out  for  a  walk  in  the  woods 
with  a  noble  party  that  is  waiting  down-stairs. 
The  days  pass  away  in  spite  of  us,  and  we  are  car- 
ried along  the  rapid  stream  of  time,  you  see.  And 
if  days  pass  quick,  why  a  month  will,  and  then  we 
shall  be  cosily  back  in  London  once  more,  and  I 
shall  see  you  at  your  own  fire,  or  lying  on  your  own 
sofa,  very  quiet  and  calm  after  all  this  trouble  and 
turmoil.     God  bless   you,   dear  lady  and  William, 

and  your  little  maiden. 

W.  M.  T. 

26  February,  1850. 
After  hearing  that  Miss  Brookfield  was  doing 
•well  in  the  arms  of  her  Mamma,  if  you  please,  I 
rode  in  the  Park  on  Tuesday,  where  there  was  such 
a  crowd  of  carriages  along  the  Serpentine,  that  I 
blushed  to  be  on  horseback  there,  and  running  the 


£effer0  of  ^^acfterag.  J  ^9 

gauntlet  of  so  many  beauties.  Out  of  a  tliousand 
carriages  I  didn't  know  one,  wliich  was  odd,  and 
strikes  one  as  showing  tlie  enormity  of  London. 
Of  course  if  there  had  been  anybody  in  the  car- 
riages I  should  have  known  them,  but  there  was  no- 
bod}',  positively  nobody.  (This  sentence  isn't  as 
neatly  turned  as  it  might  have  been,  and  is  by  no 
means  so  playfully  satirical  as  could  be  wished.) 
Eidiug  over  the  Serpentine  Bridge,  six  horsemen, 
with  a  lady  in  the  middle,  came  galloping  upon  me, 
and  sent  me  on  to  the  foot  pavement  in  a  fright,  when 
they  all  pulled  up  at  a  halt,  and  the  lady  in  the  mid- 
dle cried  out,  How  do  you  do  Mr.  &c.  The  lady  in 
the  middle  was  pretty  Mrs.  L.  She  made  me  turn 
back  with  the  six  horsemen  ;  of  course  I  took  oif 
my  hat  with  a  profound  bow,  and  said  that  to  follow 
in  her  train  was  my  greatest  desire — and  we  rode 
back,  all  through  the  carriages,  making  an  immense 
clatter  and  sensation,  which  the  lady  in  the  middle, 
her  name  was  Mrs.  Liddle,  enjoyed  very  much. 
She  looked  uncommonly  handsome,  she  had  gen- 
tlemen with  moustachios  on  each  sitle  of  her.  I 
thought  we  looked  like  Brighton  bucks  or  provin- 
cial swells,  and  felt  by  no  means  elated. 

Then  we  passed  out  of  Hyde  Park  into  the  Green 

Ditto,  where  the  lady  in  the  middle  said  she  must 

have  a  canter,  and  off  we  set,  the  moustachios,  the 

lady,  and  myself,  skurrying  the  policemen  off  the 

y 


'30  £cffer0  cf  it^ocficrag. 

road  and  making  the  ^Yalkel•3  stare.  I  was  glad 
when  we  got  to  St.  James'  Park  gate,  where  I  could 
take  leave  of  that  terrific  black-eyed  beauty,  and 
ride  away  by  myself.  As  I  rode  home  by  the  El- 
liot's I  longed  to  go  in  and  tell  them  what  had  hajD- 
pened,  and  how  it  was  your  Httle  girl's  birth-day  ; 
but  I  did  not,  but  came  home  and  drank  her  health 
instead,  and  wrote  her  a  letter  and  slept  sound. 

Yesterday  after  writing  for  three  hours  or  so, 
what  did  I  go  out  for  to  see  ?  First  the  Miss  Jin- 
gleby's,  looking  very  fresh  and  pretty ;  you  see  we 
have  consolations  ;  then  a  poor  fellow  dying  of  con- 
sumption. He  talked  as  they  all  do,  with  a  jaunty, 
lively  manner,  as  if  he  should  recover  ;  his  sister  sat 
with  us,  looking  very  wistfully  at  him  as  he  talked 
on  about  hunting,  and  how  he  had  got  his  cold  by 
falling  with  his  horse  in  a  brook,  and  how  he  should 
get  better  by  going  to  St.  Leonard's  ;  and  I  said  of 
course  he  would,  and  his  sister  looked  at  him  very 
hard.  As  I  rode  away  through  Brompton,  I  met 
two  ladies  not  of  my  acquaintance,  in  a  brougham, 
who  nevertheless  ogled  and  beckoned  me  in  a  very 
winning  manner,  which  made  me  laugh  most  won- 
derful. O  !  you  poor  little  painted  Jezebels,  thinks 
I,  do  you  think  you  can  catch  such  a  grey-headed 
old  fogey  as  me  ?  poor  little  things.  Behind  them 
came  dear,  honest,  kind  Castlereagh,  galloping 
along  ;  he  pulled  uj)  and  shook  haiids  ;  that  good 


£cffer0  of  ^^cvcftcrag.  131 

fellow  was  going  on  an  errand  of  charity  and  kind- 
ness, consumption  hospital,  woman  he  knows  to  get 
in,  and  so  forth.  There's  a  deal  of  good  in  the 
wicked  world,  isn't  there  ?  I  am  sure  it  is  partly 
because  he  is  a  lord  that  I  like  that  man  ;  but  it 
is  his  lovingness,  manliness,  and  simplicity  which  I 
like  best.  Then  I  went  to  Chesham  Place,  where  I 
told  them  about  things.  You  ought  to  be  fond  of 
those  two  women,  they  speak  so  tenderly  of  you. 
Kate  Perry  is  very  ill  and  can  scarcely  speak  with  a 
sore  throat ;  they  gave  me  a  pretty  bread  tray,  which 
they  have  carved  for  me,  with  wheat-ears  round  the 
edge,  and  W.  M.  T.  in  the  centre.  O  !  yes,  but  be- 
fore that  I  had  ridden  in  the  Park,  and  met  dear 
old  Elliotson,  thundering  along  with  the  great 
horses,  at  ten  miles  an  hour.  The  little  'oss  trotted 
by  the  great  'osses  quite  easily  though,  and  wo 
shook  hands  at  a  capital  pace,  and  talked  in  a 
friendly  manner,  and  as  I  passed  close  by  your 
door,  why  I  just  went  in  and  saw  William  and 
IMi's.  F.  Then  at  eight  o'clock,  a  grand  dinner  iu 
Jewry My  !  what  a  fine  din- 
ner, what  plate  and  candelabra,  what  a  deal  of  good 
things,  and  sweetmeats  especially  wonderful.  The 
Christians  were  in  a  minority.  Lady  C.  beautiful, 
serene,  stupid  old  lady  ;  she  asked  Isn't  that  the 
great  Mr.  Thackeray  ?  O  !  my  stars  think  of  that ! 
Lord  M H celebrated  as  a  gourmand ;  he 


1)2  feetfere  of  't?}Cnc^t.x(K'2, 

kindly  told  me  of  a  particular  disli,  which  I  was 
not  to  let  pass,  something  a  la  Pompadour,  very 
nice.  Charles  Villiers,  Lady  Hislop,  pretty  little 
Hattie  Elliot,  and  Lady  Somebody, — and  then  I 
went  to  Miss  Berrys' — Kinglakc,  Phillips,  Lady 
Stuart  de  Rothesay,  Lady  Waterford's  mother, 
Colonel  Darner.  There's  a  day  for  you.  Well,  it 
was  a  very  pleasant  one,  and  perhaps  this  gossip 
about  it,  will  amuse  my  dear  lady. 

[  written  to  mrs.  fansitawe  and  mrs.  erookfield  ] 

Hotel  Bristol,  Place  Vendome. 

Tuesday,  March  5th.  1850 

My  dear  Ladies: 

I  am  arrived  just  this  minute  safe  and  sound  un- 
der the  most  beautiful  blue  sky,  after  a  fair  passage 
and  a  good  night's  rest  at  Boulogne,  where  I  found, 
what  do  you  think  ? — a  letter  from  a  dear  friend  of 
mine,  dated  September  13th,  which  somehow  gave 
me  as  much  pleasure  as  if  it  had  been  a  fresh  letter 
.almost,  and  for  which  I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
you.  I  travelled  to  Paris  with  a  chax-acter  for  a 
book.  Lord  Howden,  the  ex-beau  Caradoc  or  Cra- 
dock,  a  man  for  whom  more  women  have  gone  dis- 
tracted than  you  have  any  idea  of.  So  delightful  a 
middle-aged  dandy  !  Well,  he  will  make  a  page  in 
some  book  some  day.  In  the  meantime  I  want  to 
know  why  there  is  no  letter  to  tell  mo  that  madaine 


fecffer0  of  ^^ocftcmp.  i33 

is  getting  on  well.  I  slionld  like  to  hear  so  much. 
It  seems  a  shame  to  have  come  away  yesterday  with- 
out going  to  ask.  It  was  the  suddenest  freak,  done, 
packed  and  gone  in  half  an  hour,  hadn't  time  even 
to  breakfast.  .  .  .  And  as  I  really  wanted  a  lit- 
tle change  and  fresh  air  for  my  lungs,  I  think  I  did 

well  to  escape 

I  send  this  by  the  Morning  Chronicle's  packet. 
Don't  be  paying  letters  to  me,  but  write  &  write 
away,  and  never  mind  the  expense,  Mrs.  Fanshawe. 

W.  M.  T. 

[  1850  ] 
Hotel  Bristol,  Place  Vendome. 

Madame : 

One  is  arrived,  one  is  at  his  ancient  lodging  of  the 
Hotel  Bristol,  one  has  heard  the  familiar  clarions 
sound  at  nine  hours  and  a  half  under  the  Column, 
the  place  is  whipped  by  the  rain  actually,  and  only 
rare  umbrellas  make  themselves  to  see  here  and 
there ;  London  is  grey  and  brumous,  but  scarcely 
more  sorrowful  than  this.  For  so  love  I  these  places, 
it  is  with  the  eyes  that  the  sun  makes  itself  on  the 
first  day  at  Paris;  one  has  suffered,  one  has  been 
disabused,  but  one  is  not  biased  to  this  point  that 
nothing  more  excites,  nothing  amuses.  The  first  day 
of  Paris  amuses  always.  Isn't  this  a  perfectly  odious 
and   affected  style  of  writing?     Wouldn't   you  be 


134  &cffer0  of  ^^ftdterfi)?. 

disgusted  to  liavo  a  letter  written  all  like  that? 
Mauy  peoj^le  are  scarcely  less  affected,  tliough,  in 
composing  letters,  and  translate  their  thoughts  into 
a  pompous  unfamiliar  language,  as  necessary  and 
proper  for  the  circumstances  of  letter-writing.  In 
the  midst  of  this  sentiment  Jeames  comes  in,  having 
been  employed  to  buy  pens  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  having  paid  he  said  three  francs  for  twenty. — I 
go  out  in  a  rage  to  the  shop,  thinking  to  confound 
the  woman  who  had  cheated  him  ;  I  place  him  out- 
side the  shop  and  entering  myself  ask  the  price  of  a 
score  of  pens ;  one  franc  says  the  woman  ;  I  call  in 
Jeames  to  confront  him  with  the  tradeswoman  ;  she 
says,  I  sold  monsieur  a  box  of  pens,  he  gave  me  a 
five-franc  piece,  I  returned  him  two  2-franc  pieces, 
and  so  it  was ;  only  Jeames  never  having  before  seen 
a  two-franc  piece,  thouglit  that  she  had  given  back 
two  franc  pieces ;  and  so  nobody  is  cheated,  and  I 
had  my  walk  in  the  rain  for  nothing. 

But  as  this  had  brought  me  close  to  the  Palais 
Royal,  where  there  is  the  exhibition  of  pictures,  I 
went  to  see  it,  wondering  whether  I  could  turn  an 
honest  penny  by  criticising  the  same.  But  I  find  I 
Lave  nothing  to  say  about  pictures.  A  pretty  land- 
scape or  two  pleased  me  ;  no  statues  did ;  some 
great  big  historical  pictures  bored  me.  This  is  a 
poor  account  of  a  Paris  exhibition,  isn't  it  ?  looking 
for  half  a  minute  at  a  work  wliic^li  had  taken  a  man 


feeffere  of  ^^ftem^.  iS5 

all  his  might  and  main  for  a  year ;  on  which  he  had 
employed  all  his  talents,  and  set  all  his  hopes  and 
ambition  ;  about  which  he  had  lain  awake  at  night 
very  probably,  and  i^iuched  himself  of  a  dinner  that 
he  might  buy  colours  or  pay  models, — I  say  it  seems 
very  vinkiud  to  look  at  such  a  thing  with  a  yawn  and 
turn  away  indifferent ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the 
cold,  marble  statues  looked  after  me  reproachfully 
and  said,  "Come  back,  you  sir  !  don't  neglect  me  in 
this  rude  way.  I  am  very  beautiful,  I  am  indeed.  I 
have  many  hidden  charms  and  qualities  which  you 
don't  know  yet,  and  which  you  would  know  and  love 
if  you  would  but  examine  a  little."  But  I  didn't 
come  back,  the  world  didn't  care  for  the  hidden 
charms  of  the  statue,  but  passed  on  and  yawned  over 
the  next  article  in  the  Catalogue.  There  is  a  moral 
to  this  fable,  I  think  ;  and  that  is  all  I  got  out  of  the 
exhibition  of  the  Palais  Royal. 

Then  I  went  to  beat  up  the  old  haunts,  and  look 
about  for  lodgings  w^hich  are  awfully  scarce  and 
dear  in  this  quarter.  Here  they  can  only  take  me 
in  for  a  day  or  two,  and  I  am  occupying  at  present 
two  rooms  in  a  gorgeous  suite  of  apartments  big 
enough  and  splendid  enough  for  the  Lord  Chief 
Baron  '  and  all  his  family.  Oh  !  but  first,  I  forgot, 
I  went  to  breakfast  with  Bear  Ellice,  who  told  me 
Lady  Sandwich  had  a  grand  ball,  and  promised  to 

'  The  late  Loril  Chief  Baron  was  the  father  of  thirty-two  chililren. 


13^  feeffere  of  ^^ocfierag. 

take  me  to  a  soiree  at  Monsieur  Duchatel's.  I  went 
there  after  dining  at  home.  Splendid  hotel  in  the 
Faubourg  Saint  Germain  ;  magnificent  drawing 
room  ;  vulgar  people,  I  thought  ;  the  walls  were 
splendidly  i)aintcd  ;  "  Cast  du  Louis  Quinze  ou  du 
commencement  de  Louis  XVI,"  the  host  said.  Bla- 
guear  !  the  painting  is  about  ten  years  old,  and  is  of 
the  highly  ornamental  Cafe  school.  It  is  a  Louis 
Phillippist  house,  and  everybody  was  in  mourning 
— for  the  dear  Queen  of  the  Belgians,  I  sujDpose. 
The  men  as  they  arrived  went  up  and  made  their 
bows  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  who  sat  by  the  fire 
talking  to  other  two  ladies,  and  this  bow  over,  the 
gentlemen  talked,  standing,  to  each  other.  It  was 
uncommonly  stupid.  Then  we  went  oflf  to  Lady 
Sandwich's  ball.  I  had  wrote  a  note  to  her  lady- 
ship in  the  morning,  and  received  a  Kyind  invitation. 
Everybody  was  there,  Thiei's,  Mole,  and  the  French 
Sosoiatee,  and  lots  of  English  ;  the  Castlereaghs, 
ver}'  kind  and  hearty,  my  lady  looking  very  px-etty, 
and  Cas — (mark  the  easy  grace  of  Cas) — well,  and 
clear-sighted  ;  Lord  Normanby  and  wife,  exceeding- 
gracious ;— Lady  Waldegravo  ; — all  sorts  of  world, 
and  if  I  want  the  reign  of  pleasure,  it  is  here,  it  is 
bei-e.  Gudiu  the  painter  asked  me  to  dine  today 
and  meet  Dumas,  which  will  be  amusing  I  hope. 

And  I  forgot  to  say  that  Mr.  Thomas  Eraser  says, 
that  Mr.  Inspector  Brookfield  is  the  most  delightful 


fecffers  of  ^^ocftcrftp.  137 

fellow  he  ever  met.  I  went  to  sec  my  aunt  besides 
all  tliis,  and  the  evening  and  the  morning  was  the 
first  day. 

Sunday  morning.  I  passed  the  morning  yester- 
day writing  the  scene  of  a  play,  so  witty  and  dia- 
bolical that  I  shall  be  curious  to  know  if  it  is  good  ; 
and  went  to  the  pictures  again,  and  afterwards  to 
Lady  Castlereagh  and  other  polite  persons,  finishing 
the  afternoon  dutifully  at  home,  and  with  my  aunt 
and  cousins,  whom  you  would  like.  At  dinner  at 
Gudin's  there  was  a  great  stupid  company,  and  I  sat 
between  one  of  the  stupidest  and  handsomest  wom- 
en I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  and  a  lady  to  whom  I  made 
three  observations  which  she  answered  with  Oui, 
Monsieur,  and  non,  monsieur,  and  then  commenced 
a  conversation  over  my  back  with  my  handsome 
neighboui'.  If  this  is  French  manners,  says  I,  Ci- 
vility be  hanged,  and  so  I  ate  my  dinner  ;  and  did 
not  say  one  word  more  to  that  woman. 

But  there  were  some  pleasant  people  in  spite  of 
her  :  a  painter  (portrait)  with  a  leonine  mane,  Mr. 
Gigoux,  that  I  took  a  liking  to  ;  an  old  general,  jolly 
and  gentlemanlike  ;  a  humorous  Prince,  agreeable 
and  easy  :  and  a  wonderful  old  buck,  who  was  my 
pleasure.  The  party  disported  themselves  until 
pretty  late,  and  we  went  up  into  a  tower  fitted  up  in 
the  Arabian  fashion  and  there  smoked,  which  did 
not  diminish  the  pleasure  of  the  evening.    Mrs.  L.  the 


1^8  £cffer6  of  ^^ftcm^. 

engineer's  wife,  brouglit  me  home  in  her  broughfim, 
the  great  engineer  sitting  bodkin  and  his  wife  scold- 
ing me  amiably,  about  Laura  and  Pendennis.  A 
handsome  woman  this  Mrs.  L.  must  have  been  when 
her  engineer  married  her,  but  not  quite  up  to  her 

present  aggrandized  fortune 

My  old  folks  were  happy  in  their  quarter,  and 
good  old  G.  P.  bears  the  bore  of  the  children  con- 
stantly in  his  room,  with  great  good  humour.  But 
ah,  somehow  it  is  a  dismal  end  to  a  career.  A  fa- 
mous beauty  and  a  soldier  who  has  been  in  twentj' 
battles  and  led  a  half  dozen  of  storming  parties  ! 
Here  comes  Jeames  to  say  that  the  letters  must  this 
instant  go  ;  and  so  God  bless  you  and  your  hus- 
band and  little  maiden,  and  write  soon,  my  dear 
kind  lady,  to 

W.  M.  T. 

[Paris,  1850] 

I  send  this  scrap  by  a  newspaper  correspondent, 
just  to  say  I  am  very  well  and  so  awfully  hard  at 
business  I  have  no  time  for  more. 

Wednesday. 

Madam  and  Dear  Lady: 

If  I  have  no  better  news  to  send  you  than  this, 
pray  don't  mind,  but  keep  the  enclosures  safe  for 
me  against  I  come  back,  whicli  Mon't  be  many  days 


fecfferfi  of  ^fyxdhrai^.  1 39 

now,  please  God.  I  had  thought  of  setting  off  to- 
morrow, but  as  I  have  got  into  working  trim,  I 
think  I  had  best  stoj)  here  and  do  a  great  bit  of  my 
number,  before  I  unsettle  myself  by  another  jour- 
ney. I  have  been  to  no  gaieties,  for  I  have  been  laid 
up  with  a  violent  cold  and  cough,  which  kept  me  in 
my  rooms,  too  stupid  even  to  write.  But  these  ills 
have  cleared  away  pretty  well  now,  and  I  am  bent 
upon  going  out  to  dinner  au  cabaret,  and  to  some 
fun  afterwards,  I  don't  know  where,  nor  scarce  what 
I  write,  I  am  so  tired.  I  wonder  what  will  happen 
with  Pendennis  and  Fanny  Bolton  ;  writing  it  and 
sending  it  to  you,  somehow  it  seems  as  if  it  were 
true.  I  shall  know  more  about  them  tomorrow  ; 
but  mind,  mind  and  keep  the  manuscript  ;  you  see 
it  is  five  pages,  fifteen  pounds,  by  the  immortal 
Gods  ! 

I  am  asked  to  a  marriage  tomorrow,  a  young 
Foker,  of  twenty-two,  with  a  lady  hero,  a  widow, 
and  once  a  runaway. 

The  pen  drops  out  of  my  hand,  it's  so  tired,  but 
as  the  ambassador's  bag  goes  for  nothing,  I  like 
to  say  how  do  you  do,  and  remember  me  to  Miss 
Brookfield,  and  shake  hands  with  William.  God 
bless  you  all. 

This  note  which  was  to  have  gone  away  yester- 
day, was  too  late  for  the  bag,  and  I  was  at  work  too 
late  today  to  write  a  word  for  anything  but  Penclen- 


140  Ectfere  of  ^^acfterai?. 

nis  :  I  hope  I  shall  bring  a  great  part  of  it  home 
with  me  at  the  end  of  the  week,  in  the  meantime 
don't  put  j'ou  to  the  trouble  of  the  manuscript, 
which  you  see  I  was  only  sending  because  I  had  no 
news  and  no  other  signs  of  life  to  give.  I  have  been 
out  to  the  play  tonight,  and  laughed  very  pleasantly 
at  nonsense  until  now,  when  I  am  come  home  very 
tired  and  sleepy,  and  write  just  one  word  to  say 

good-night 

They  say  there  is  to  be  another  revolution  here 
very  soon,  but  I  shall  be  across  the  water  before 
that  event,  and  my  old  folks  will  be  here  instead. 
You  must  please  to  tell  Mrs.  Fanshawe  that  I  am 
over  head  and  ears  in  work,  and  that  I  beg  you  to 
kiss  the  tijDS  of  her  gloves  for  me.  There  is  another 
letter  for  you  begun  somewhere,  about  the  premises, 
but  it  was  written  in  so  gloomy  and  egotistical  a 
strain,  that  it  was  best  burnt.  I  burnt  another  yes- 
terday, written  to  Lady  Ashburton,  because  it  was 
too  pert,  and  like  Major  Pendennis,  talking  only 
about  lords  and  great  people,  in  an  easy  off  hand 
way.  I  tliink  I  only  write  naturally  to  one  person 
now,  and  make  points  and  compose  sentences  to 
others.  That  is  why  you  must  be  patient  please,  and 
let  me  go  on  twaddling  and  boring  you. 


Ectfcre  of  it^dkxa^.  141 

1850. 

Dieppe, 

Hotel  Morgan. 
For  once  there  is  some  good  in  being  in  France 
clear  lady,  for  I  can  write  j-ou  a  line  on  a  Saturday 
night  &  know  that  it  will  travel  through  Sunday 
and  reach  you  some  time  the  next  day.  As  yet  the 
journey  hasn't  done  me  any  good,  on  the  contrary 
stirred  up  my  inward  man  and  made  me  ill,  I  was 
in  bed  the  greater  part  of  yesterday  &  to  day  and 
when  I  went  to  look  at  the  town  and  sea  w''  are  very 
pretty  only  saw  them  with  such  bilious  eyes  as  a 
man  deserves  who  dines  out  every  day  of  his  life. 
Why  didn't  I  accept  your  invitation  on  Wednesday 
wasn't  it  Wednesday?  —  it  seems  to  me  about  2 
5'ears  since  Wednesday — I  thought  I'd  been  to  see 
you  in  the  da}',  that  I'm  always  made  kindly  wel- 
come, that  I'd  no  business  to  come,  and  so  instead 
went  to  the  Rugg  &  Famish,  where  without  exceeding 
I  had  exactly  4  times  as  much  wine  as  was  good  for 
me  and  woke  sick  and  ill  and  have  been  ill  &  sick 
ever  since  ;  now  better,  please  the  pigs — for  I  took 
a  delightful  drive  into  the  country,  &  saw  a  beauti- 
ful old  church  and  a  charming  landscape  and  an  an- 
cient castle,  w!"  interested  me  only  a  very  little  (you 
may  pass  over  the  rest  of  this  sentence  and  page  if 
you  please,  for  I  warn  you  that  my  intention  is  to 
menager  you  a  surprise  on  the  other  side  of  the  i^ago 


142  Ecftere  of  ^J^acfterai?, 

and  all  this  is  mere  filling  in  as  I  have  to  do  with 
my  blocks  in  Peudennis  sometimes).  Well  I  hired 
a  gig  and  horse  to  drive  me  and  who  do  you  think 

[  Here  a  drawimj  in  the  original  letter "[ 

was  my  driver  ?  (I've  drawn  it  shockingly  ill  though 
I  took  the  gold  j^en — but  there  was  my  coachwoman 
a  very  lovely  pretty  girl  whose  name  was  Angelina 
Henriou  and  who  told  me  she  was  heiress  of  fifteen 
horses  and  six  carriages  w'.'  her  Papa  kept.  As  we 
were  driving  to  Arques  we  met  one  of  the  carriages 
and  Angelina  cried  out  Voila  Papa — and  I  thought 
Papa  looked  a  little  queer  at  seeing  his  daughter 
drive  a  gentleman  of  forty.  But  she  amused  me 
•with  her  artless  prattle,  and  Papa  did  not  know  that 
I  was  suffering  from  something  not  at  all  unlike 
cholera  w!"  made  some  of  my  grimaces  to  Angelina 
ghastly  to  look  at.  However  the  drive  did  me  good, 
and  the  beautiful  air  and  scene,  and  Angelina  if  you 
like.  There  came  to  see  me  a  lady  before  Angelina's 
arrival  you  must  know.  I  found  an  elderly  female 
waiting  in  the  Hotel  passage  who  I  instantly  knew 
to  be  the  wife  of  the  British  clergyman  of  the  j^lace 
— an  honest  brandy  and  water  divine  whom  I  rec- 
ognized at  once  (without  having  ever  seen  before) 
and  whose  acquaintance  I  made  on  the  packet.  I 
shall  go  to  his  church  tomorrow,  and  if  he  is  free  to 
dine  out  of  a  Sunday,  will  fill  his  old  skin  with  strong 


£,etfcr6  of  ^^cicfierai?.  143 

drink.  The  continental  parson  is  a  sort  you  don't 
know — ah,  mum  !  he's  very  different  to  the  white 
chokers  of  S'  James  or  Saint  Margaret's  or  Saint 
Montgomery's  !  "What  a  deal  that  woman  has  had 
to  suffer  !  What  insults  from  butchers  and  lodging 
house  keepers  whom  his  reverence  couldnt  pay  ! 
What  hats  have  gone  round  for  him — what  struggles 
to  be  respectable  she  has  kept  up  since  the  day  five 
&  twenty  years  ago  when  that  croaking  old  woman 
was  a  pretty  fresh  young  lass  ! — Dont  you  see  this 
is  getting  like  a  book?  And  am  I  not  going  to  be 
able  to  write  naturally  even  to  you,  my  dear  lady  ? 
Since  I  have  been  here  I  have  read  through  3  plays, — 
those  of  Beaumarchais — the  Figaro  cycle,  and  2  nov- 
els— one  in  6  volumes,  very  impudent  and  amusing  by 
Alexandre  Dumas  Fils — and  I  have  had  a  letter  from 
Mr.  James,  a  composition  as  elegant  as  you  could 
write  or  his  reverence,  and  who  forgot  in  my  port- 
manteau just  the  things  w'l  I  told  him  to  put  there. 

And  now  Maam  I  dont  like  to  ask  you  to  write  to 
me,  because  I  dont  think  I  shall  stop  here  very  long — 
may  come  back  by  next  Mondays  packet,  but  that 
would  perhajjs  hurt  the  feelings  of  my  old  folks  at 
Paris  who  might  like  to  see  me.  And  will  you  make 
me  a  birthday  present  please  ?  and  it  shall  be  a  din- 
ner on  the  18.  I'll  see  you  off,  wish  you  well,  and 
then — fire  away  at  Pendennis. 

Coming  here  wont  do.     Very  moderate  houses  let 


'44  &effer0  of  ^^acfterag. 

at  50X  for  tlie  season — then  to  go  and  come  with  my 
family  is  20.£  more. — Whereas  we  may  go  to  Bou- 
logne and  back  for  G£  and  get  rooms  for  25£.  And 
so  God  bless  you,  dear  friend,  and  God  bless  all 
yours,  prays  3'our  affectionate  brother  Makej^eace. 

There  was  a  little  girl  of  10  in  the  Railroad  going 
to  Eastbourne  who  was  so  beautiful  that  I  had  near- 
ly gone  after  her,  for  I  wanted  very  little  to  decide 
me  one  way  or  other,  and  only  came  hither  because 
I  saw  by  Bradshaw  in  the  morning  that  the  boat 
started  on  that  day.  But  I  think  and  hoj^e  I  shall 
be  better  for  the  little  change.  There's  a  play  here 
tomorrow  night,  Sunday,  will  you  come  ? 

[Paris,  1850] 

My  dear  Lady  : 

Do  you  sec  how  mad  everybody  is  in  the  world  ? 
or  is  it  not  my  own  insanity?  Yesterday  when  it 
became  time  to  shut  up  my  letter,  I  was  going  to 
tell  you  about  my  elders,  who  have  got  hold  of  a 
mad  old  Indian  woman,  who  calls  herself  Aline  Gul- 
tave  d'origine  Mogole,  who  is  stark  staring  mad, 
and  sees  visions,  works  miracles,  que  sais-je  ?  The 
old  fool  is  mad  of  sheer  vanity,  and  yet  fool  as  she 
is,  my  people  actually  l^elieve  in  her,  and  I  believe 
the  old  gentleman  goes  to  her  every  day.  To-day 
I  went  to  see  D'Orsay,  who  has  made  a  bust  of 
Lamartine,  who,  too,  is  mad  with  vanity.     He  has 


£,cffer0  of  ^^ocfiera^.  145 

■written  some  verses  on  his  bust,  and  asks,  Who  is 
this?  Is  it  a  warrior?  Is  it  a  hero  ?  Is  it  a  priest? 
Is  it  a  sage?  Is  it  a  tribune  of  the  people?  Is  it 
an  Adonis?  nieauing  that  he  is  all  these  things, — 
verses  so  fatuous  and  crazy  I  never  saw.  Well, 
D'Orsay  says  they  are  the  finest  verses  that  ever 
were  written,  and  imparts  to  me  a  translation  which 
Miss  Power  has  made  of  them  ;  and  D'Orsay  believes 
in  his  mad  rubbish  of  a  statue,  which  he  didn't 
make  ;  believes  in  it  in  the  mad  way  that  madmen 
do, — that  it  is  divine,  and  that  he  made  it ;  only  as 
3^ou  look  in  his  eyes,  you  see  that  he  doesn't  quite 
believe,  and  when  pressed  hesitates,  and  turns  away 
with  a  howl  of  rage.  D'Orsay  has  fitted  himself  up 
a  charming  atelier  with  arms  and  trophies,  pictures 
and  looking-glasses,  the  tomb  of  Blessington,  the 
sword  and  star  of  Napoleon,  and  a  crucifix  over  his 
bed  ;  and  here  he  dwells  without  any  doubts  or  re- 
morses, admiring  himself  in  the  most  horrible  j^ict- 
ures  which  he  has  painted,  and  the  statues  which  he 
gets  done  for  him.  I  had  been  at  work  till  two,  all 
da}'  before  going  to  see  him  ;  and  thence  went  to 
Lady  Normanby,  who  was  very  j)leasant  and  talka- 
tive ;  and  then  tramping  upon  a  half  dozen  of  visits 
of  duty.  I  had  refused  proffered  banquets  in  order 
to  dine  at  home,  but  when  I  got  home  at  the  dinner 
hour,  everybody  was  away,  the  bonne   was  ill  and 

obliged  to  go  to  the  country,  and  parents  and  chil- 
10 


t4^  feettere  of  ^^acfterai?. 

tlren  were  away  to  dine  with  a  Mrs.  ...  a 
good  woman  who  writes  books,  keeps  a  select  board- 
ing-house for  young  ladies  who  wish  to  see  Parisian 
society,  and  whom  I  like,  but  cannot  bear,  because 
she  has  the  organ  of  admiration  too  strongly.  Papa 
was  king,  mamma  was  queen,  in  this  company,  I  a 
sort  of  foreign  emperor  with  the  jDriucesses  my 
daughters.  By  Jove,  it  was  intolerably  painful ; 
and  I  must  go  to  her  soii'ee  to-morrow  night  too, 
and  drag  about  in  this  confounded  little  Pedlingtou. 
Yesterday  night, — I  am  afraid  it  was  the  first  day 
of  the  week, — I  dined  with  Morton,  and  met  no  less 
than  four  tables  of  English  I  knew,  and  went  to  the 
plaj'.  There  was  a  little  girl  acting,  who  made  one's 
heart  ache ; — the  joke  of  the  piece  is,  the  child,  who 
looks  about  three,  is  taken  by  the  servants  to  a  ca- 
sino, is  carried  olY  for  an  hour  by  some  dragoons, 
and  comes  back,  having  learned  to  smoke,  to  dance 
slang  dances,  and  sing  slang  songs.  Poor  little 
rogue,  she  sung  one  of  her  songs,  from  an  actor's 
arms ;  a  wicked  song,  in  a  sweet  little  innocent  voice. 
She  will  be  bought  and  sold  within  three  years  from 
this  time,  and  won't  be  playing  at  wickedness  any 
more.  I  shall  shut  up  my  desk  and  say  God  bless 
all  the  little  girls  that  you  and  I  love,  and  their  par- 
ents.    God  bless  you,  dear  lad}-. 

I  have  got  a  very  amusing  book,  tlie  Taller  news- 
paper  of   1709  ;   and  tljut   sh;dl    bo  my  so^iorific   I 


fceffer0  of  ^^ocficrag.  147 

Lope.  I  Lave  been  advancing  in  Blue  Beard,  but 
nuist  give  it  up,  it  is  too  dreadfully  cynical  and 
wicked.  It  is  in  blank  verse  and  all  a  diabolical 
sneer.     Depend  upon  it,  Helps  is  right. 

Wednesday.  If  I  didn't  write  yesterday  it  was  be- 
cause I  was  M'ickedly  employed.  I  was  gambling 
until  two  o'clock  this  morning,  playing  a  game  called 
lansquenet  which  is  very  good  gambling  ;  and  I  left 
off,  as  I  had  begun,  very  thankful  not  to  carry  away 
any  body's  money  or  leave  behind  any  of  my  own  ; 
but  it  was  curious 'to  watch  the  tempers  of  the  vari- 
ous players,  the  meanness  of  one,  the  flurry  and  ex- 
citement of  another,  the  difterence  of  the  same  man 
winning  and  losing  ;  all  which  I  got,  besides  a  good 
dinner  and  a  headache  this  morning.  Annie  and 
Minnie  and  my  mother,  came  to  see  me  yesterday. 
I  don't  think  they  will  be  so  very  eager  for  Paris 
after  three  weeks  here  ;  the  simple  habits  of  our  old 
people  will  hardl}'  suit  the  little  women.  Even  in 
my  absence  in  America,  I  don't  quite  like  leaving 
them  altogether  here  ;  I  wonder  if  an  amiable  fam- 
ily, as  is  very  kind  to  me,  will  give  them  hos-pitality 
for  a  month  ?  I  was  writing  Blue  Beard  all  day  ; 
very  sardonic  and  amusing  to  do,  but  I  doubt 
whether  it  will  be  pleasant  to  read  or  hear,  or  even 
whether  it  is  right  to  go  on  with  this  wicked  vein ; 
and  also,  I  must  tell  you  that  a  story  is  biling  up  in 
my  interior,  in  which  there  shall  appear  some  very 


N^  £,ettcr0  of  ^^ocfterag. 

good,  lofty  and  generous  peoj)Ie  ;  perhaps  a  story 
without  any  villains  in  it  would  be  good,  wouldn't 
it? 

Thursdaij. — Thanks  for  yovir  letter  madamc.  If  I 
tell  you  my  plans  and  my  small  gossip,  I  don't  bore 
you  do  I  ?  You  listen  to  them  so  kindly  at  home, 
that  I've  got  the  habit,  you  see.  Why  don't  you 
write  a  little  handwriting,  and  send  me  yours  ?  This 
place  begins  to  be  as  bad  as  London  in  the  season ; 
there  are  dinners  and  routs  for  every  day  and 
iiiglit.  Last  night  I  went  to  dine  at  home,  with 
bouilli  boci'f  and  ordinaire,  and  bad  ordinaire  too  ; 
but  the  dinner  was  just  as  good  as  a  better  one, 
and  afterwards  I  went  with  my  mother  to  a  soiree, 
where  I  had  to  face  fifty  people  of  whom  I  didn't 
know  one ;  and  being  there,  was  introduced  to  other 
soiree  givers,  be  hanged  to  them.  And  there  I  left 
my  ma,  and  went  off  to  Madame  Gudiu's  the  paint- 
er's wife,  where  really  there  was  a  beautiful  ball  ; 
and  ail  the  world,  all  the  English  world  that  is  ;  and 
to-night  it  is  the  President's  ball,  if  you  please,  and 
tomorrow,  and  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  moi-e  gai- 
eties. It  was  queer  to  see  poor  old  Castlereagh  in 
a  dark  room,  keeping  aloof  from  the  dancing  and 
the  gaiety,  and  having  his  thoughts  fixed  on  king- 
dom come,  and  Bennett  confessor  and  martyr;  while 
Lady  Castlereagh,  who  led  him  into  his  devotional 
state,  was  enjoying  the  music  and  the  gay  company, 


fecffcre  of  ^^acftera^.  149 

as  cheerfully  as  the  most  rauntlanc  person  present. 
The  French  people  all  talk  to  me  about  Ponche, 
■when  I  am  introduced  to  them,  which  wounds  my 
vanity,  which  is  wholesome  very  likely.  Among  the 
notabilities  was  Vicomte  D'Arlincourt,  a  mad  old 
romance  writer,  on  whom  I  amused  myself  by  pour- 
ing the  most  tremendous  compliments  I  could  in- 
vent. He  said,  fed  vu  V^cosse ;  mais  Valter  Scolt 
n'y  etait  plus,  hclas  !  I  said,  voiis  y  etiez,  Vicomte, 
c'etait  Men  assez  <Vun — on  which  the  old  boy  said  I 
possessed  French  admirably,  and  knew  to  si:)eakthe 
prettiest  things  in  the  prettiest  manner,  I  wish  you 
could  see  him,  I  wish  you  could  see  the  world  here. 
I  wish  you  and  Mr.  were  coming  to  the  play  with 
me  tonight,  to  a  regular  melodrama,  far  away  on  the 
Boulevard,  and  a  quiet  little  snug  dinner  au  Ban- 
quet d'Anacrhn.  The  Banquet  D'Anacreon  is  a  dingy 
little  restaurant  on  the  boulevard  where  all  the  plays 
are  acted,  and  the}'  tell  great  things  of  a  piece 
called  Pa/'Uasse  in  which  Le  Maitre  performs  ;  nous 
verrons,  Madame,  nous  verrons.  But  with  all  this 
racket  and  gaiety,  do  you  understand  that  a  gentle- 
man feels  very  lonely  ?  I  swear  I  had  sooner  have 
a  pipe  and  a  gin  and  water  soiree  with  somebody', 
than  the  best  President's  orgeat.  I  go  to  my 
cousins  for  half  an  hour  almost  every  day  ;  you'd 
like  them  better  than  poor  Mary  wliom  you  won't 
be  able  to  stand,  at  least  if  she  talk  to  you  about 


i^o  feeftere  of  ^^ocftemg. 

lier  bodily  state   as  slie   talks  to   nie.     What   else 

shall  I  say  iu  this  stupid  letter  ?     I've  not  seen  any 

children  as  pretty  as  Magdalene,  that's  all.     I  have 

told  Annie  to  write  to  you  and  I  am  glad  Mrs.  Fan 

is  going  to  stay  ;  and  I  hear  that  several  papers  have 

reproduced  the  thunder  and  small  beer   articles ; ' 

and  I  thank  you  for  your  letter  ;  and  pray  the  best 

pra^'ers  I  am  worth  for  you,  and  your  husband,  and 

child,  my  dear  lady. 

W.  M,  T. 


Tuesday  \_23rd  Aj^ril  1850] 

Your  Sunday's  letter  only  came  in  this  morning, 
I  am  sorry  to  see  my  dear  lady  writes  irislely,  but  I 
would  rather  you  would  write  sorrowfully  if  you  feel 
so  than  sham  gaiety  or  light-heartedness.  AVhat's 
the  good  of  a  brother  to  you,  if  you  can't  tell  him 
things?  If  I  am  dismal  don't  I  give  you  the  benefit 
of  the  dumps  ?  Ah  !  I  should  like  to  be  with  you 
for  an  hour  or  two  and  see  if  you  arc  changed 
and  oldened,  in  this  immense  time  that  you  have 
been  away.  But  business  and  pleasure  keep  me 
hero  nailed.  I  have  an  awful  week  of  festivities 
before  me ;  today  Shakespeare's  birthday  at  the 
Garrick  Club,  dinner  and  speech.  Lunch,  Madame 
Lionel  Rothschild's  ;  ball.  Lady  Waldcgrave's  ;  she 
gives  the  finest  balls  in  London,  and  I  have  never 

'  Tliackeniy'.s  ix-ply  to  a  criLicisiii  in  the  Times. 


&effer0  of  ^^cftcra^.  .  /j/ 

seen  one  j'et.  To-morrow,  of  five  invitations  to  din- 
ner, the  first  is  j\lr.  ]\Iarsball,  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire's evening-  party,  Lady  Emily  Dundas'  ditto. 
Thursday,  Sir  Anthony  Rothschild.  Friday,  the  do- 
mestic afiections.  Saturday,  Sir  Robert  Peel.  Sun- 
day, Lord  Lansdowne's.  Isn't  it  curious  to  think — 
it  was  striking  my  great  mind  yesterday,  as  Annie 
was  sorting  the  cards  in  the  chimney-glass, — that 
there  are  people  who  would  give  their  ears,  or  half 
their  income  to  go  to  these  fine  places  ?  I  was  rid- 
ing with  an  Old  Bailey  barrister,  yesterday  in  the 
Park,  and  his  pretty  wife  (on  les  aiinent  jolies,  Jlfa- 
damc).  He  apologised  for  knowing  people  who  lived 
in  Brunswick  Square,  and  thought  to  prove  his  gen- 
tility by  calling  it  that  demned  place. 

The  good  dinner  on  Friday  was  very  pleasant  and 
quiet  with  old  acquaintances,  the  ladies,  M.  P.'s 
wives,  took  mo  aside  and  asked  confidentially  about 
the  fashionable  world  in  which  it  is  supposed,  I  be- 
lieve, that  I  live  entirely  now  ;  and  the  wonder  is 
that  people  don't  hate  me  more  than  they  do.^  I 
tried  to  explain  that  I  was  still  a  man,  and  that 
among  the  ladies  of  fashion,  a  lady  could  but  be  a 
lady,  and  no  better  nor  no  worser.  Are  there  any 
better  ladies  than  you  and  Pincushion  ?  Annie  has 
found  out  that  quality  in  the  two  of  you,  with  her 
generous  instincts.  I  had  a  delightful  morning  with 
her  on  Sundav,  when  she  read  me  the  Deserted   VU- 


1^2  fectfcrs  of  ^^acfterai?, 

lage,  and  wo  talked  about  it.  I  couldn't  have  talked 
with  her  so,  with  anybody  else,  except  perhaps  you, 
in  the  room.  Saturday  !  what  did  I  do  ?  I  went  to 
Punch  and  afterwards  to  a  play,  to  see  a  piece  of  the 
Lady  of  Lyons  performed,  by  a  ]\Ir.  Anderson.  Be- 
fore that  to  the  Water-Colour  Society,  which  was 
choke-full  of  bishops  and  other  big- wigs,  and  among 
them  Sir  Robert  Peel  elaborately  gracious, — con- 
versation with  Lady  Peel,  about  2000  people  look- 
ing on.  Bows,  grins,  grimaces  on  both  sides,  fol- 
lowed by  an  invitation  to  dinner  next  Saturday. 
The  next  person  I  shook  hands  with  after  Sir  Rob- 
ert Peel,  was — who  do  you  think  ?  Mrs.  Rhodes  of 
the  Back  Kitchen  ;  I  thought  of  you  that  very  in- 
stant, and  to  think  of  you,  dear  lady,  is  to  bless 
you. 

After,  in  going  homo  from  the  Berrys,  where  was 
a  groat  assembly  of  polite  persons,  Lady  Moi'ley, 
Avhom  you  love,  (wo  laughed  and  cracked  away  so 
that  it  would  have  made  you  angr}')  my  dear  Elliot, 
and  Perry,  Lord  Lansdowne,  Carlyle,  ever  so  many 
more.  Oh !  stop,  at  the  Water  Colours  on  Satur- 
day, Mr.  Hallam  asked  me  to  dinner.  He  and  Lord 
Mohun  and  Miss  Julia  went  and  admired  a  picture, 
O !  such  a  spoony  picture.  Sunday  I  went  to  Hamp- 
stead  with  the  infants,  and  dined  at  the  Crowes'  ; 
I  went  to  Higgins',  a  very  pleasant  little  party  ;  sorry 


feeff ere  of  ^^acfterai?.  /  53 

his  reverence  could  not  come.  And  then,  "which  is 
I  beheve  Monday,  I  was  alarmed  at  not  getting  my 
manuscript  back  ;  I  drew  wood  blocks  all  day,  rode 
in  the  Park  for  three  hovxrs  without  calling  or  visit- 
ing anywhere  ;  came  home  to  dinner,  went  to  the 
Berrys's  and  am  back  again  at  twelve,  to  say  G.  B.  Y. 

[1850] 

CAMBRIDGE. 

Madam : 

I  have  only  had  one  opportunity  of  saj-ing  how  do 
you  do  to-day,  on  the  envelope  of  a  letter  which  you 
will  have  received  from  another,  and  even  more  in- 
timate friend  W.  H.  B.  This  is  to  inform  you  that 
I  am  so  utterly  and  dreadfully  miserable  now  he  has 
just  gone  off  at  one  o'clock  to  Norwich  by  the  hor- 
rid mail,  that  I  think  I  can't  bear  this  place  beyond 
tomorrow  and  must  come  back  again. 

We  had  a  very  pleasant  breakfast  at  Dr.  Henry 
Maine's  and  two  well-bred  young  gents  of  the  Uni- 
versity, and  broiled  fowls  and  mushrooms,  just  as  we 
remember  them  200  years  ago.     .     .     . 

I  have  had  the  meanness  not  to  take  a  private 
room  and  write  in  consequence  in  the  Coffee  Apart- 
ment in  a  great  state  of  disquiet.  Young  under- 
graduates are  eating  supper,  chattering  is  going  on 
incessantlv.     I  wonder  whether  William  is  safe  in 


f54  feetfere  of  ^^ocfterai?. 

the  train,  oi'  ■will  ho  come  back  in  two  minutes,  too 
late  for  the  conveyance.  Yes,  here  he  comes  actu- 
ally— no,  it  is  only  the  waiter  with  a  fresh  sujpply 
of  bitter  beer  for  the  young  gents.  Well,  we  brex- 
fested  with  Mr.  and  Mi-s.  Maine,  and  I  thought  him 
a  most  kind,  gentle,  and  lovable  sort  of  man,  so 
to  speak,  and  liked  her  artlessness  and  simplicity. 
( Note  that  this  is  the  same  horrid  ink  of  last  night, 
which  will  blot.)  and  then  we  went  to  fetch  walks 
over  the  ground,  forgotten,  and  yet  somehow  well 
remembered.  AVilliam  says  he  is  going  to  bring 
you  down  here,  and  you  will  like  it  and  bo  very 
happy.     .     .     . 

Just  now  William,  I  was  going  to  write  Villiam, 
but  I  knew  you  wouldn't  like  it,  says,  "  She  is  din- 
ing at  Lady  Monteaglc's,"  so  I  said  "Let  us  drink 
licr  health,"  and  wo  did,  in  a  mixture  of  ale  and 
soda  water,  very  good.  There  was  a  bagman  ashioj^ 
in  the  room,  and  we  drank  your  health,  and  both  of 
us  said,  "  God  bless  her,"  I  think  this  is  the  chief 
part  of  my  transactions  during  the  day.  ...  I 
tliink  I  said  wo  walked  about  in  haunts  once  familiar. 
We  went  to  the  Union  where  we  read  the  papers, 
then  drove  to  the  river  where  we  saw  the  young  fel- 
lows in  the  boats,  tlicn  amidst  the  College  groves 
and  cetera,  and  peeped  into  various  courts  and  halls, 
and  were  not  unamused,  but  bitterly  melancholious, 
though  I  must  say  William  complimented  me  on  my 


£ctfcr0  of  ^^ocftem^.  155 

healthy  appearance,  and  he  for  his  part,  looked  un- 
commonly well. 

I  went  then  to  see  my  relations,  old  Dr.  Thackeray 
75  years  of  age,  perfectly  healthy,  handsome,  stupid 
and  happy,  and  he  isn't  a  bit  changed  in  twenty 
years,  nor  is  his  wife,  strange  to  say.  I  told  him  he 
looked  like  my  grandfather,  his  uncle,  on  which  he 
said,  "  Your  grandfather  was  by  no  means  the  hand- 
somest of  the  Thackerays,"  and  so  I  suppose  he 
pi-ides  himself  on  his  personal  beauty.  At  four,  we 
went  to  dine  with  Don  Thompson  in  Hall,  where  the 

thing  to  me  most  striking  was  the if  you  please, 

the  smell  of  the  dinner,  exactly  like  what  I  remem- 
ber afore -time.  Savoury  odours  of  youth  borne 
across  I  don't  know  what  streams  and  deserts,  strug- 
gles, passions,  poverties,  hopes,  hopeless  loves  and 
iiseless  loves  of  twenty  years !  There  is  a  sentiment 
suddenly  worked  out  of  a  number  of  veal  and  mut- 
ton joints,  which  surprises  me  just  as  much  as  it  as-^ 
tonishes  you,  but  the  best  or  woz'st  of  being  used  to 
the  pen  is,  that  one  chatters  with  it  as  with  the 
tongue  to  certain  persons,  and  all  things  blurt  out 
for  good  or  for  bad.  You  know  how  to  take  the 
good  parts  generously  and  to  forget  the  bad,  dear 
kind  lady. 

Then  we  went  to  Jenny  Lind's  concert,  for  which 
a  gentleman  here  gave  us  tickets,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  tirst  act  wc  agreed  to  come  away.     It  struck  mo 


1^6  £cffcr0  of  ^^acftemg. 

as  atrociously  stupid.  I  was  thinking  of  something 
else  the  whole  time  she  was  jugulating  away,  and  01 
I  was  so  glad  to  get  to  the  end  and  have  a  cigar,  and 
I  wanted  so  to  go  away  Avith  Mr.  Williams,  for  I  feel 
entirely  out  of  place  in  this  town.  This  seems  to 
me  to  be  spoken  all  in  a  breath,  and  has  been  writ- 
ten without  a  full  stop.  Does  it  not  strike  you  as 
entirely  frantic  and  queer?  Well,  I  wish  I  were 
back.     .     .     . 

I  am  going  out  to  breakfast  to  see  some  of  the  gal- 
lant young  blades  of  the  University,  and  tonight,  if  I 
last  until  then,  to  the  Union  to  hear  a  debate.  What 
a  queer  thing  it  is.  ^I  think  William  is  a  little  dis- 
appointed that  I  have  not  been  made  enough  a  liou 
of,  Avhereas  my  timid  nature  trembles  before  such 
honours,  and  my  vanity  would  bo  to  go  through  life 
as  a  gentleman — as  a  Major  Pendennis — you  have 
Lit  it.  I  believe  I  never  do  think  about  my  public 
character,  and  certainly  didn't  see  the  gyps,  waiters 
and  undergraduates  whispering  in  hall,  as  your  Will^- 
iam  did,  or  thought  he  did.  He  was  quite  happy  in 
some  dreary  rooms  in  College,  where  I  should  have 
perished  of  ennni, — thus  are  wo  constituted.  An  old 
hook-nosed  clergyman  has  just  come  into  the  Coffee- 
room,  and  is  looking  over  my  shoulder  I  think,  and 
has  put  a  stop  to  the  sentence  beginning  "thus  are 
we  constituted  &c. 

Jenny  Lind  made  £400  by  her  concert  last  night 


SL^ftctB  of  ^^acftemi?.  r^y 

and  has  given  £  100  to  the  hospital.  This  seems  rather 
pompous  sort  of  piety,  it  would  be  better  to  charge 
people  less  than  31/G  for  tickets,  and  omit  the  charity 
to  the  poor.  But  you  see  j^eople  are  never  satisfied 
(the  hook-nosed  clergyman  has  just  addressed  a  re- 
mark) only  I  pitied  my  cousins  the  Miss  Thackex'ays 
last  night,  who  were  longing  to  go  and  couldn't,  be- 
cause tickets  for  four  or  five  of  them  in  the  second 
rows,  Avould  have  cost  as  many  guineas,  and  their 
father  could  not  afford  any  such  sum.  .  .  .  Pre- 
sent my  best  compliments  to  Mrs.  Fanshawe.  If  you 
see  Mrs.  Elliot  remember  me  to  her  most  kindly,  and 
now  to  breakfast. 


wurrxiiN  TO  us,  when  we  avere  at  camukidge. 
[18501 

Wednesday,  Midnight. 

I  have  made  an  awful  smash  at  the  Literary  Fund 
and  have  tumbled  into  '  Evins  knows  where  ; — It  was 
a  tremendous  exhibition  of  imbecility.  Good  night. 
I  hope  you  2  are  sound  asleep.  Why  isn't  there 
somebody  that  I  could  go  and  smoke  a  inpe  to? 
Bon  Soir 

But  O  !  what  a  smash  I  have  made ! 

I  am  talking  quite  loud  out  to  myself  at  the  Garrick 
sentences  I  intended  to  have  uttered :  but  they  would- 
n't come  in  time. 


'3^  Eeffere  of  t3f»cftera^. 

After  tlie  fatal  niglit  of  the  Literary  Fund  disas- 
ter, when  I  came  home  to  bed  (breaking  out  into 
exclamations  in  the  cab,  and  letting  off  madly,  parts 
of  the  speech  which  wouldn't  explode  at  the  proper 
time)  I  found  the  house  lighted  up,  and  the  poor 
old  mother  waiting  to  hear  the  result  of  the  day. 
--80  I  told  her  that  I  was  utterly  beaten  and  had 
nmde  a  fool  of  myself,  upon  which  Avith  a  sort  of  cry 
she  said  "  No  you  didn't,  old  man,"— and  it  appears 
that  she  had  been  behind  a  pillar  in  the  gallery  all 
the  time  and  heard  the  speeches  ;  and  as  for  mine 
she  thinks  it  was  beautiful.  So  you  see,  if  there's 
no  pleasing  everybody,  yet  some  people  are  easily 
enough  satisfied.  The  children  came  down  in  the 
morning  and  told  me  about  my  beautiful  speech 
which  Granny  had  heard.  She  got  up  early  and 
told  them  the  story  about  it,  you  may  be  sure ;  her 
story,  which  is  not  the  true  one,  but  like  what  wom- 
en's stories  are. 

I  have  a  faint  glimmering  notion  of  Sir  Charles 
Hedges  having  made  his  a])pearance  somewhex-e  in 
the  middle  of  the  speech,  but  of  what  was  said  I 
liaven't  the  smallest  idea.  The  discomfiture  will 
make  a  good  chapter  for  Pen.  It  is  thus  we  make 
Jltche  de  tout  hois ;  and  I,  I  suppose  every  single  cir- 
cumstance which  occurs  to  pain  or  please  me  hence- 
forth, will  go  into  \)Ymi  somehow  or  the  other,  so 
take  care,  if  you  please,  to  be  very  well  behaved  and 


£effer0  of  ^^acfterag.  759 

kind  to  me  or  else  you  may  come  iu  for  a  savage 
chapter  in  the  very  next  number. 

As  soon  as  I  rallied  from  the  abominable  headache 
which  the  Free  Masons  tavern  always  gives,  I  went 
out  to  see  ladies  who  are  quite  like  sisters  to  me, 
they  are  so  kind,  lively  and  cheerful.  Old  Lady 
Morley  was  there  and  we  had  a  jolly  lunch,  and 
afterwards  one  of  these  ladies  told  me  by  whom 
she  sat  at  Lansdowne  House,  and  what  they  talked 
about  and  how  pleased,  she,  my  fi-iend  was.  She  is 
a  kind  generous  soul  and  I  love  her  sincerely. 

After  the  luncheon  (for  this  is  wrote  on  Saturday, 
for  all  yesterday  I  was  so  busy  from  nine  till  five, 
when  my  horse  w^as  brought  and  I  took  a  ride  and 

it  was  too  late  for  the  post)  I  went  to  see ,  that 

friend  of  my  youth  whom  I  used  to  think  20  years 
ago  the  most  fascinating,  accomplished,  witty  and 
delightful  of  men.     I  found  an  old  man  in  a  room 

smelling  of  brandy  and  water  at  5  o'clock  at , 

(|uite  the  same  man  that  I  remember,  only  grown 
coarser  and  stale  somehow,  like  a  piece  of  goods  that 
has  been  hanging  up  in  a  shop  window.  He  has 
had  15  years  of  a  vulgar  wdfe,  much  solitude,  very 
much  brandy  and  water  I  should  think,  and  a  de- 
pressing profession  ;  for  what  can  be  more  depress- 
ing than  a  long  course  of  hypocrisy  to  a  man  of  no 
small  sense  of  humour  ?  It  was  a  painful  meeting. 
We  tried  to  talk  unreservedly,  and  as  I  looked  at  his 


i6o  £eftcr6  of  ^^acfierag. 

face  I  remembered  the  fellow  I  was  so  fond  of. — He 
asked  me  if  I  still  consorted  with  any  Cambridge 
men  ;  and  so  I  mentioned  Kinglake  and  one  Brook- 
field  of  whom  I  saw  a  good  deal.  He  was  surprised 
at  this,  as  he  heard  Brookfield  was  so  violent  a 
Piiseyitc  as  to  be  just  on  the  point  of  going  to 
Home.  He  can't  walk,  having  paralysis  in  his  legs, 
but  he  preaches  every  Sunday,  he  says,  being  hoisted 
into  his  pulj)it  before  service  and  waiting  there 
whilst  his  curate  reads  down  below. 

I  think  he  has  very  likely  repented :  he  spoke  of 
his  preaching  seriously  and  Avithout  affectation  :  per- 
haps he  has  got  to  be  sincere  at  last  after  a  long 
dark  lonely  life.  He  showed  me  his  daughter  of  15, 
a  pretty  girl  with  a  shrewish  face  and  bad  manners. 
The  wife  did  not  show.  Ho  inust  have  been  glad 
too  when  I  went  away  and  I  dare  say  is  more  scorn- 
ful about  me  than  I  about  him.  I  used  to  worship 
him  for  about  G  months  ;  and  2iow  he  points  a  moral 
and  adorns  a  tale  such  as  it  is  in  Peudeunis.     He 

lives  in  the  Duke  of park  at and  wanted 

me  to  come  down  and  see  him,  and  go  to  the  Abbey 
he  said,  where  the  Duke  would  be  so  glad  to  have 
mo. — But  I  declined  this  treat — O  fie  for  shame  ! 

How  proud  we  get !     Poor  old  Harry  !   and 

this  battered  vulgar  man  was  my  idol  of  youth  ! 
My  dear  old  Fitzgerald  is  always  right  about  men, 
and  said  from  the  first  that  this  was  a  bad  one  and 


£effcr0  of  ^^odlemp.  i6i 

a  sliam.  You  sec,  some  folks  Lave  a  knack  of  set- 
ting uj)  for  themselves  idols  to  worsliip. 

Don't  be  flying  off  in  one  of  your  fits  of  passion, 
I  don't  mean  you. 

Then  I  went  to  dine  at  's,  where  were  his 

wife  and  sister.  I  don't  think  so  much  of  the  wife, 
though  she  is  pretty  and  clever — but  Becky-fied 
somehow,  and  too  much  of  a  petite  matiresse.  I  sup- 
pose a  deal  of  flattery  has  been  poured  into  her 
ears,  and  numberless  men  have  dangled  round  that 
pretty  light  little  creature.  The  sister  with  her 
bright  eyes  was  very  nice  though,  and  I  passed  an 
evening  in  great  delectation  till  midnight  drawing 
nonsense  pictures  for  these  ladies,  who  have  both 
plenty  of  I'elish  for  nonsense.  Yesterday,  after  work- 
ing all  day,  and  then  going  to  the  London  Library 
to  audit  accounts — doesn't  that  sound  grand  ? — and 
taking  a  ride,  I  came  home  to  dinner,  fell  asleep  as 
usual  afterwards,  slept  for  12  hours,  and  am  now 
going  to  attack  Monsieur  Pendennis.  Here  is  the 
journal.  Now  Ma'm  have  you  been  amused?  Is 
King's  veiy  fine?  is  Trinity  better?  did  you  have  a 
nice  T  at  Mrs.  Maine's?  When  are  you  coming 
back  ?  Lord  and  Lady  Castlereagli  came  here  yes- 
terday, and  I  want  you  to  come  back,  so  that  I  may 
give  them  an  entertainment ; — for  I  told  my  lady 
that  I  wanted  to  show  her  that  other  lady  mentioned 
in  the  Punch  article  as  mending  her  husband's 
11 


1 62  ^ittxB  cf  ^^ocftcrai?. 

chest  of  drawers — but  I  said  -svaistcoat. — Sir  Bulwer 
Lyttou  called  yesterday. 

To-niglit  I  am  going  to  the  bar  dinner,  and  sliall 
probably  make  another  speech. — I  don't  mind  about 
failing  there,  so  I  shall  do  pretty  ^YeU.  I  rode  by 
Portman  Street  on  Thursday.  Please  to  write  and 
let  me  know  whether  you'll  dine  on  the  28th  or  the 
30th,  or  can  you  give  me  both  those  days  to  choose 
from.  And  so  God  bless  both  on  you. 
[  Signed  3  hands  clasped.^^ 

FRAGMENT    OP    A  LETTER 

About   1850 

I  coidd  not  come  yesterday  evening  to  ring  at  the 
door  ;  for  I  did  not  return  until  8  o'clock  fi'om 
the  visit  to  the  emigrant  ship  at  Gravesend,  and  then 
I  had  to  work  until  12,  and  polish  off  Pendennis. 
There  are  always  four  or  five  hours  work  when  it  is 
over,  and  four  or  five  more  would  do  it  all  the  good 
in  the  world,  and  a  second,  or  third  reading. 

That  emigrant  business  was  very  solemn  and  af- 
fecting ;  it  was  with  difficulty  I  could  keep  my  spec- 
tacles dry — amongst  the  people  taking  leave,  the 
families  of  grave-looking  parents  and  unconscious 
children,  and  the  bustle  and  incidents  of  departure. 
The  cabins  in  one  of  the  shijjs  had  only  just  been 
fitted  up,  and  no  sooner  done  than  a  child  was  that 
instant  born  in  one  of  them,  on  the  very  edge  of 


feeffere  of  ^^ftera^.  i6^ 

the  old  world  as  it  were,  wLicli  it  leaves  for  quite  a 
new  country,  home,  empire.  Yoa  shake  hands  with 
one  or  two  of  these  people  and  pat  the  yellow  heads 
of  the  children  (there  was  a  Newcastle  woman  with 
eight  of  them,  who  interested  me  a  good  deal)  and 
say  "God  bless  you,  shake  hands,  you  and  I  shall 
never  meet  again  in  this  world,  go  and  do  your 
work  across  the  four  months  of  ocean,  and  God 
prosper  it."  The  ship  drops  down  the  river,  it 
gives  us  three  great  cheers  as  we  come  away  in  the 
steamer  with  heavy  hearts  rather.  In  three  hours 
more  IVIi*.  "W.  M.  T.  is  hard  at  work  at  Punch  office  ; 
Mx.  Parson  Quikette  has  got  to  his  night  school 
at  St.  George's  in  the  East  ;  that  beautiful  gracious 
princess  of  a  Mrs.  Herbert  is  dressing  herself  up  in 
diamonds  and  rubies  very  likely,  to  go  out  into  the 
world,  or  is  she  up  stairs  in  the  nursery,  reading  a 
good  book  over  the  child's  cradle  ?  Oh  !  enormous, 
various,  changing,  wonderful,  solemn  world?  Ad- 
mirable providence  of  God  that  creates  such  an  in- 
finitude of  men,  it  makes  one  very  grave,  and  full 
of  love  and  awe.  I  was  thinking  about  this  yester- 
day morning  before  six,  when  I  was  writing  the  last 
paragraph  of  Pendennis  in  bed,  and  the  sun  walked 
into  the  room  and  supplied  the  last  paragraph  with 
an  allusion  about  3'ou,  and  which  I  think  means  a 
benediction  upon  "William,  and  your  child,  and  my 
dear  lady.     God  keep  you. 


1 64  £,effer6  of  t^^M^txCK-^, 

As  I  am  waiting  to  see  i\Irs.  BuUar,  I  find  an  old 
review  Avitli  an  advertisement  in  it,  containing  a  great 
part  of  an  article  I  wrote  about  Fielding,  in  1840  in 
the  Times.  Perhaps  Madame  will  like  to  see  it,  and 
Mr.  Williams.  My  wife  was  just  sickening  at  that 
moment ;  I  wrote  it  at  Margate,  where  I  had  taken 
her,  and  used  to  walk  out  three  miles  to  a  little  bowl- 
iug-gi'een,  and  write  there  in  an  arboui' — coming 
home  and  wondering  what  was  the  melancholy  op- 
pressing the  poor  little  woman.  The  Times  gave  me 
five  guineas  for  the  article.  I  recollect  I  thought  it 
rather  shabby  pay,  and  twelve  days  after  it  appeared 
in  the  paper,  my  poor  little  wife's  malady  showed  it- 
self. 

How  queer  it  is  to  be  carried  back  all  of  a  sudden 
to  that  time,  and  all  that  belonged  to  it,  and  read 
this  article  over;  doesn't  the  apology  for  Fielding 
read  like  an  apology  for  somebody  else  too?  God 
help  us,  what  a  deal  of  cares,  and  pleasures,  and 
struggles,  and  happiness  I  have  had  since  that  day 
in  the  little  sunshiny  arbour,  where,  with  scarcely  any 
money  in  my  pocket,  and  two  little  children,  (Minnie 
was  a  baby  two  months  old)  I  was  writing  this  notice 
about  Fielding.  Grief,  Love,  Fame,  if  you  like. — I 
have  had  no  little  of  all  since  then  (I  don't  mean  to 
take  the  fame  for  more  than  it's  worth,  or  brag  about 
it  with  any  peculiar  elation.) 


£cffcr6  of  t^acf^erat.  163 

My  dear  Madam: 

On  cfilling  on  our  mutual  friend  Mrs.  Procter, 
yesterday,  she  was  polite  enough  to  offer  me  a  seat 
in  her  box  at  Drury  Lane  theatre  this  evening,  when 
Her  Majedu  honours  the  play-house  with  a  visit  for 
the  benefit  of  Mr.  Macready.  Shakespeare  is  always 
amusing,  and  I  am  told  the  aspect  of  the  beef-eaters 
at  the  royal  box  is  very  imposing.  I  mentioned  to 
Mrs.  Procter  that  I  had  myself  witnessed  many  en- 
tertainments of  this  nature,  and  did  not  very  much 
desire  to  be  present,  but  intimated  to  her  that  I  had 
a  friend  who  I  believed  was  most  anxious  to  witness 
IVIi'.  Macready's  performance  in  the  august  presence  of 
the  Sovereign.  I  mentioned  the  name  of  your  hus- 
band, and  found  that  she  had  already,  with  her  usu- 
al politeness,  dispatched  a  card  to  that  gentleman, 
whom  I  shall  therefore  have  the  happiness  of  meet- 
ing this  evening.  But  perhaps  you  are  aware,  that 
a  chosen  feio  are  admitted  behind  the  scenes  of  the 
theatre,  where,  when  the  curtain  rises,  they  appear 
behind  the  performers,  and  with  loyal  hearts  join 
in  the  national  anthem,  at  the  very  feet  of  their 
Queen.  My  reverend  friend  has  an  elegant  voice, 
perhaps  he  would  like  to  lift  it  \x]}  in  a  chorus, 
which  though  performed  in  the  temple  of  TJiespis, 
I  cannot  but  consider  to  be  in  the  nature  of  a 
hymn.     I  send  therefore  a  ticket  of  which  I  beg 


1 66  feetfere  cf  ^^fterai(>. 

his  polite  acceptance,   and  am  dear  Madam,   with 
the  utmost  resj^ect. 

Your  very  faithful  servant, 

W.  M.  Thackeeay. 

P.  S.  I  was  a  little  late  for  the  magnificent  enter- 
tainment of  my  tided  friench  Sir  William  and  Lady 
Molesworth,  on  Saturday,  and  indeed  the  first  course 
had  been  removed,  when  I  made  my  appearance. 
The  banquet  was  sumptuous  in  the  extreme,  and  the 
company  of  the  most  select  order.  I  had  the  hap- 
piness of  sitting  next  to  Clarence  Bulbul  Esq.,  M.  P., 
and  opposite  was  the  most  noble,  the  Marquis  of 
Steyne.  Fancy  my  happiness  in  the  company  of 
persons  so  distinguished.  A  delightful  concert  fol- 
lowed the  dinner,  and  the  whole  concluded  with  a 
Bumptuous  supper,  nor  did  the  party  separate  until  a 
late  hour. 

WRITTEN    ABOUT    THE   TIME     WHEN    WE    WERE    AT 
PARK   COTTAGE   SOUTHAMPTON 

[1850] 

As  the  Sunday  Post  is  open  again,  I  write  you  a 
Mord  of  good-bye — and  send  you  a  little  commis- 
sion. Please  to  give  Dr.  BuUar's  Infirmary  30/  for 
me  and  the  children, — or  put  that  sum  into  his 
money-box  at  Prospect  Place.  I  tried  my  very 
hardest  to  compose  my  mind  and  ballad  in  the  rail- 


way  but  it  was  no  use.  I  start  for  Antwerp  at  9  to- 
morrow morning  ;  shall  be  there  at  6  or  so  on  Mon- 
day ;  and  sleej)  probably  at  Cologne  or  Bonn  ;  and 
if  anybody  chooses  to  write  to  me  at  Frankfort, 
Poste  Restante,  I  should  get  the  letter  I  daresay. — 
Shall  I  send  you  Lady  Kicklebury's  Tour  ?  I  will 
if  it  is  at  all  funny  or  pleasant,  but  I  doubt  if  it  will 
do  for  letters  well.  Oh  how  glum  and  dingy  the  city 
looks,  and  smoky  and  dreary  !  Yesterday  as  I  [was] 
walking  in  the  woods  with  Mrs.  Procter  looking  at 
the  columns  of  the  fir  trees,  I  thought  of  the  pillars 
here,  and  said  "  This  place  is  almost  as  lonely  as  the 
Reform  Club  in  September."  But  the  difference  to 
the  feehug  mind  is  very  great  betwixt  the  two  soli- 
tudes, and  for  one  I  envy  the  birds  in  the  Hamp- 
shire boughs — what  rubbish  ! 

FRAGMENT. 

We  have  been  to  Shoolbred's  to  buy  a  gown  for 
granny.  We  have  been  to  Madame  Victorine's  to 
order  new  dresses  for  ourselves.  We  have  been  to 
call  at  Mrs.  Elliot's,  Mrs.  Prinsep's,  Lady  Roths- 
child's, Mr.  H.  Hallara's,  Mrs.  James's,  Mrs.  Pol- 
lock's, Lady  Pollock's,  and  the  young  women  are 
gone  home,  and  I  am  expecting  Mr.  William  to  dine 
here.  I  have  ordered  such  a  nice  dinner ;  we  are  to 
go  to  the  Sartoris'  afterwards.     Will  you  go  there 


i68  £efter6  cf  ^^dtera)?. 

nest  Friday  ?  I  think  I  shall  go  somewhere  on  Sun- 
day, Monday  and  Tuesday,  I  have  no  engagements 
for  those  thre«  days,  isn't  it  wonderful  ?  But  I'll  be 
magnanimous  and  not  bother  my  dear  lady's  friends. 

I  saw  Harr}-  Hallam,  he  and  the  faithful  Maiue 
were  reading  hard.  Maine  wanted  me  to  fix  to  go 
to  his  house  on  Friday  the  4th  May,  but  I  wouldn't. 
Harry  was  very  pleasant,  jovial,  and  gracious.  He 
has  been  speaking  well  of  me  to  the  Elliots'.  The 
artful  dodger,  he  knew  they  would  tell  me  again. 
What  kind  women  they  are !  They  say  they  had  a 
very  nice  letter  from  you  ;  I  didn't  have  a  nice  let- 
ter from  you  ;  and  as  for  your  letter  to  my  mamma, 
which  I  read,  O !  ma'am,  how  frightened  you  were 
when  you  wrote  it,  and  what  for  were  you  in  a  fright  ? 
You  have  brains,  imagination,  wit ;  how  conceited 
it  is  to  be  afraid,  then. 

I  saw  my  lovely  Vieginia  to-day,  she  was  as  kind  and 
merry  as  ever.  The  children  seemed  to  stare  to  hear 
me  laugh  and  talk,  I  never  do  at  home.     .     .     . 

Mr.  Inspector, 

Mr.  Kcnyon  having  called  upon  me  to  fix  a  day 
when  you  may  have  the  honour  of  meeting  me  at  his 
house,  I  have  proposed  Christmas  Eve,  and  am  with 
compliments  to  the  (jeehrle  Frau  Schalinspektorin 

Yours 

W.  I\I.  T. 


£,efter0  of  ^^odterai?.  169 


WuiTE  Lion,  Bristol, 
Monday  1850. 

My  dear  Lady  : 

"With  the  gold  pen  there's  no  knowing  how  and 
what  I  wi'ite,  the  handwriting  is  quite  different  and 
it  seems  as  if  one  was  speaking  with  a  different  voice. 
Fauey  a  man  stepping  up  to  speak  to  you  on  stilts 
and  trying  to  make  a  bow,  or  paying  you  compli- 
ments through  a  Punch's  whistle ; — not  that  I  ever 
do  pay  you  a  compliment,  you  know,  hut  I  can't  or 
I  shan't  he  able  for  a  line  or  two  to  approach  you 
naturally,  and  must  skate  along  over  this  shiny 
paper. 

I  went  to  Clevedon  and  saw  the  last  rites  per- 
formed for  poor  dear  Harry. — '  I  went  from  here, 
and  waited  at  Candy's  till  the  time  of  the  funeral,  in 
such  cold  weather !  Candy's  shop  was  full  of  cease- 
less customers  all  the  time — there  was  a  little  boy 
buying  candles  and  an  old  woman  with  the  tooth- 
ache— and  at  last  the  moment  drew  nigh  and  Tin- 
ling  in  a  scarf  and  hat-band  driving  himself  down 
from  the  Court,  passed  the  shop,  and  I  went  down 
to  the  church.  It  looked  very  tranquil  and  well  or- 
dained, and  I  had  half  an  hour  there  before  the  pro- 
cession came  in  view.  Those  ceremonies  over  a\ 
corpse — the  immortal  soul  of  a  man  being  in  the 

'  U.  F.  Uallam  died  21ih  Oct.  1850. 


I  JO  feeffers  of  ^^ocftemi?. 

keeping  of  God,  and  beyond  the  reach  of  all  under- 
takers,— always  a2:)pear  to  me  shocking  rather  than 
solemn, — and  the  horses  and  plumes  give  me  pain. — 
The  awful  moment  was  when  the  dear  old  father — 
the  coffin  being  lowered  into  the  vault  where  so 
much  of  his  affection  and  tenderest  love  lies  buried, 
went  down  into  the  cave  and  gave  the  coffin  a  last 
kiss  ; — there  was  no  standing  that  last  most  affect- 
ing touch  of  Nature.  .  .  .  Mr.  Hallam  who  had 
been  up-stairs  came  down  after  an  hour  or  two  ;  and 
I  was  so  sorry  that  I  had  decided  on  coming  back  to 
Bristol,  when  he  asked  me  whether  I  wasn't  going  to 
stay?  AVhy  didn't  I?  I  had  written  and  proposed 
myself  to  Dean  Elliot  in  the  morning  personally,  and 
I  find  he  is  out  of  town  on  returning  here  in  the 
coldest  night  to  the  most  discomfortable  inn,  writing 
paper,  gold  pen.  .  .  .  Duty,  Duty  is  the  word, 
and  I  hope  and  pray  you  will  do  it  cheerfully. 

Now  it  is  to  comfort  and  help  the  weak-hearted, 
and  so  may  your  comforter  and  helper  raise  you  up 
when  you  fall.  I  wonder  whether  what  I  said  to  you 
3'esterday  was  ti'ue  ?  I  know  what  I  think  ;ibout  the 
famous  chapter  of  St.  Paul  that  we  heard  to-day, — 
one  glor^'  of  the  sun,  and  another  of  the  moon,  and 
one  flesh  of  birds  and  one  of  fish  and  so  forth, — 
premature  definitions — yearnings  and  strivings  of  a 
great  heart  after  the  truth.  Ah  me — wlien  shall  we 
reach  the  truth?     How  can  we  with  imperfect  or- 


£effer6  cf  ^^odtera^.  n^ 

gaus?  but  we  can  get  nearer  and  nearer,  or  at  least 
eliminate  falsehood. 

To-morrow  then  for  Sir  Jolm  Cam  Hobliouse. 
Write  to  me  there,  dear  sister,  and  tell  me  you  are 
cheerful  and  that  your  baby  is  well,  and  that  you 
love  your  affectionate  old  brother.  When  will  you 
see  the  children  ?  to-morrow  I  hope.  And  now  I 
will  go  to  bed  and  pray  as  best  I  can  for  you  and 
yours  and  your  nieces  and  your  faithful  old  Make- 
peace. 

G.  B.  Y. 

1851. 

I  have  no  news  to  give  for  these  two  days,  but  I 
have  been  busy  and  done  nothing.  Virtue  doesn't 
agree  with  me  well,  and  a  very  little  domestic  rose- 
leaf  rumpled  puts  me  off  my  work  for  the  day. 
Yesterday  it  Avas,  I  forget  what ;  to-day  it  has  been 
the  same  reason  ;  and  lo  !  Saturday  cometh  and 
nothing  is  done.  .  .  .  We  have  been  to  the  Zo- 
(Jlogical  Gardens  this  fine  day  and  amused  ourselves 
in  finding  likenesses  to  our  friends  in  many  of  the 
animals.  Thank  Ecus  I  both  of  the  gii'ls  have  plenty 
of  fun  and  humour  ;  your's  ought  to  have,  from  both 
sides  of  the  house, — and  a  deal  of  good  besides,  if 
she  do  but  possess  a  mixture  of  William's  disposition 
and  yours.  He  will  be  immensely  tender  over  the 
child  when  nobody's  by,  I  am  sure  of  that.  No  fa- 
ther knows  for  a  few  months  what  it  is,  but  they 


n-  &eftcr0  of  ^^acitem^. 

learn  aftei'wards.  It  strikes  me  I  have  made  tliese 
statements  before. 

^ye  had  a  dull  dinner  at  Lady 's,  a  party  of 

chiefly;  and  O!  such  a  pretty  one,  blue  eyes, 

golel  hair,  alabaster  shoulders  and  such  a  splendid 
display  of  them.  Veuables  was  there,  very  shy  and 
grand-looking — how  kind  that  man  has  always  been 
to  me  ! — and  a  Mr,  Simeon  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  an 
Oxford  man,  who  won  my  heart  by  praising  certain 
parts  of  Vanily  Fair  which  people  won't  like.  Car- 
lyle  glowered  in  in  the  evening  ;  and  a  man  who  said 
a  good  thing.  Speaking  of  a  stupid  place  at  the 
sea-side,  Sandwich  I  think,  somebody  said  "Can't 
you  have  any  fun  there?"  "O  !  yes,"  Corry  said, 
"  but  you  must  take  it  with  you."  A  nice  speech 
I  think,  not  only  witty  but  indicating  a  gay 
cheerful  heart.  I  intend  to  try  after  that ;  xoe  in- 
tend to  try  after  that ;  and  by  action  and  so  forth 
get  out  of  that  morbid  dissatisfied  condition.  Now 
I  am  going  to  dress  to  dine  with  Lord  Holland  ; 
my  servant  comes  in  to  tell  me  it  is  time.  He  is 
a  capital  man,  an  attentive,  alert,  silent,  plate- 
cleaning,  intelligent  fellow  ;  I  hope  Ave  shall  go 
on  well  together,  and  that  I  shall  be  able  to  afford 
him.     .     .     . 

Boz  is  capital  this  month,  some  very  neat  pretty 
natural  writing  indeed,  better  than  somebody  else's 
again.    By  Jove,  he  is  a  clever  fellow,  and  somebody 


Si^cttcYB  of  ^^ocftcrcn?.  17s 

else  must  and  shall  tlo  better.  Quiet,  pleasant  din- 
ner at  Lord  Holland's  ;  leg  of  mutton  and  that  sort 
of  thing,  home  to  bed  at  10,30,  and  to-morrow  to 
work  reall}'  and  truly.  Let  nie  hear,  please,  that 
you  are  going  on  well  and  I  shall  go  on  all  the  bet- 
ter. 

April  2nfch,  1851. 

Madam  and  dear  Lady  : 

Will  you  have  a  little  letter  to-day,  or  a  long  let- 
ter to-morrow  ?  for  there's  only  half  an  hour  to  post 
time. — A  little  letter  to-day  ?— I  don't  wonder  at 
poets  being  selfish,  such  as  Wordsworth  and  Alfred. 
■ — I  have  been  for  five  days  a  poet,  and  have  thought 
or  remembered  nothing  else  but  myself  and  my 
rhymes  and  my  measure.  If  somebody  had  come 
to  me  and  said,  "  Mrs.  Brookfield  has  just  had  her 
arm  cut  ofi","  I  should  have  gone  on  with,  Queen  of 
innumerable  isles,  tidumtidy,  tidumtidy,  and  not 
stirred  from  the  chair.  The  children  and  nobody 
haven't  seen  me  except  at  night ;  and  now  though 
the  work  is  just  done,  (I  am  just  returned  from  tak- 
ing it  to  the  Times  office)  I  hardly  see  the  paper  be- 
fore me,  so  utterly  beat,  nervous,  bilious  and  over- 
come I  feel  ;  so  you  see  you  chose  a  very  bad  day 
ma'am  for  a  letter  from  yours  very  sincerely.  If  you 
were  at  Cadogan  Place  I  would  walk  in,  I  dare  say, 
say  God  bless  j'ou,  and  then  ask  leave  to  go  to  sleep. 
Now  you  must  be  thinking  of  coming  back  to  Pim- 


1 74  £effcr6  of  ^^ocfteraj?, 

lico  soon,  for  the  lectures  are  to  begin  on  the  15th. 
I  tried  the  great  room  at  WilHs's  yesterday,  and  re- 
cited part  of  the  niultipHcation  table  to  a  waiter  at 
the  opposite  cud,  so  as  to  try  the  voice.  Ho  said  he 
could  hear  perfectly,  and  I  daresay  he  could,  but 
the  thoughts  somehow  swell  aud  amplify  with  that 
high-pitched  voice  and  elaborate  distinctness.  As  I 
perceive  how  poets  become  selfish,  I  see  how  orators 
become  humbugs  and  selfish  ia  their  Avay  too,  ab- 
sorbed in  that  selfish  pursuit  and  turning  of  periods. 
It  is  curious  to  take  these  dips  into  a  life  new  to  me 
as  yet,  and  try  it  and  see  how  I  like  it,  isn't  it  ?  Ah 
me,  idleness  is  best  ;  that  is,  quiet  and  repose  of 
mind  and  somebody  to  love  and  be  fond  of,  and  nil 
admirarl  in  fine.  The  gentlemen  of  the  G.  tell  me, 
and  another  auditor  from  the  Macready  dinner,  that 
my  style  of  oratory  was  conspicuous  for  consum- 
mate ease  and  impudence,  I,  all  the  while  feeling  in 
so  terrible  a  panic  that  I  scarcely  knew  at  the  time 
Avhat  I  was  uttering,  and  didn't  know  at  all  when  I 
sat  down. — This  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you  about  self, 
and  ten  days  which  have  ^^assed  away  like  a  fever. 
"Why,  if  we  were  to  let  the  poetic  cock  turn,  and  run, 
there's  no  end  of  it  I  think.  Would  you  like  me 
now  to  become  a  great — fiddlededeo  ?  no  more  ego- 
tisms Mr.  M.  if  you  please. 

I  should  have  liked  to  see  your  master  on  Sun- 
day, but  how  could   I  ?  aud  Lord  !  I  had   such   a 


Ecffcre  of  ^^acftcrag.  175 

lieadiiclio,  and  Dicky  Doyle  came,  and  we  went  to 
Soyer's  Symposium  and  the  Crj'stal  Palace  to- 
gether, where  the  great  calm  leviathan  steam  en- 
gines and  machines  lying  alongside  like  great  line 
of  battle  ships,  did  wonderfully  move  me  ;  and  I 
think  the  English  compartment  do  beat  the  rest  en- 
tirely, and  that  let  alone  our  engines,  which  be  in- 
comparable, our  painters,  artificers,  makers  of  busts 
and  statues,  do  deserve  to  compare  with  the  best 
foreign.  This  I  am  sure  will  intei-est  and  please 
Miss  Brookfield  very  much.  God  bless  that  dear 
little  lady.  I  would  give  two-pence  to  hear  her  say, 
"  more  tea."  Oh,  by  the  way  can  I  have  that  young 
woman  of  whom  Rossiter  spoke  ?  Mary  goes  away 
at  the  end  of  the  week  and  a  cook  is  coming,  and  I 
want  a  maid,  but  have  had  no  leisure  to  think  of 
one  until  now,  when  my  natural  affairs  and  affec- 
tions are  beginning  to  return  to  my  mind,  and  when 
I  am  my  dear  lady's  friend  and  servant, 

W.  M.  T. 


May,  1851. 

Amie : 

I  write  you  a  little  word  after  that  Exhibition 
from  home 

The  ode  has  had  a  great  success.  What  do  you 
mean  by  "  an  ode  as  she  calls  it  ?  "  Vwe  dieu,  Mad- 
ame, it   is  either  an  ode   or  nix  (the  German  for 


n^  fecftere  of  ^^ocftcrajcj. 

nothing.)  AucT  as  for  the  Exhibition,  which  don't 
interest  mo  at  all  so  much,  it  was  a  noble,  awful, 
great  love  inspiring,  gooscflesh-bringing  sight.  I 
got  a  good  place  by  good  luck  and  saw  the  whole 
afYair,  of  which  no  particular  item  is  wonderful  ; 
but  the  general  effect,  the  multitude,  the  riches,  the 
peace,  the  splendour,  the  securit}',  the  sunshine, 
great  to  see, — much  grander  than  a  coronation. 
The  vastest  and  sublimest  popular  festival  that  the 
world  has  ever  witnessed  before.  What  can  one 
say  about  it  but  commonplace  ?  There  was  a  Chi- 
nese with  a  face  like  a  pantomime-mask  and  shoes, 
who  went  up  and  kissed  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 
much  to  the  old  boy's  surprise. 

And  the  Queen  looked  not  uninteresting ;  and 
Prince  Albert  grave,  handsome,  and  princely  ;  and 
the  Prince  of  Wales  and  the  Princess  Roj'al  are  nice 
children, — very  eager  to  talk  and  observe  they 
seemed.  And  while  the  Archbishop  was  saying  his 
prayer,  beginning  with  Vater  Nosier,  which  sounded, 
in  that  wonderful  tlu-ong,  inexpressibly  sweet  and 
awful,  three  Romish  Priests  were  staring  about 
them,  with  opera  glasses ;  which  made  me  feel  as 
angry  as  the  Jews  who  stoned  Stephen. 

I  think  this  is  all  I  have  to  say.  I  am  very  tired 
and  the  day  not  over,  for  I  have  promised  the  chil- 
dren to  take  them  to  the  play,  in  recomi:)ense  for 
their  disappointment  in  not  getting  to  the  Exhibi- 


Offers  of  ^^ocftcrag.  177 

tion,  which  they  had  hopes  of  seeing  through  my 
friend  Cole.  ....... 


[1851] 

Reform  Club. 

My  Dear  Sir  or  Madam  : 

Pax  vobiscum ;  ova  jJt'o  nobis.  If  j'ou  go  to  tlie 
lecture  to-day,  will  you  have  the  fly  ?  It  will  be  only 
ever  so  little  out  of  the  fly's  way  to  come  for  you  : 
and  will  you  fetch  me  from  this  place  please,  and 
will  you  send  an  answer  by  coachman  to  say  whether 
you  will  come  or  no  ? 

I  had  a  gentle  ride  in  the  Park,  and  was  all  but 
coming  to  15,  but  I  thought  I  wouldn't  get  ofl'  my 
OSS  at  any  place  save  that  where  I  am  going  to 
work,  namely  this  here,  until  lecture  time.  Doyle 
will  be  in  waiting  at  4i  o'clock  to  let  the  stray 
sheep  into  the  fold. 

I  am,  yours 

Makepeace, 
Bishop  of  Mealy  Potatoes. 

My  Dear  Lady : 

I  have   been    at  woi'k   until    now,  eight  o'clock. 

Tlie  house  is  very  pleasant,  ]\Ir.  and  Mrs.  G.  bent  on 

being  so,  the  dinners  splendacious,  and  what  do  you 

think  I  did  yesterday  ?     Please  to  teU  Spring  Rice 

12 


this  with  my  best  regards,  tomorrow.  I  thought 
over  the  coiifounJetl  Erminia  matter  in  the  rail- 
road, and  wrote  instantly  on  arriving  here,  a  letter 
of  contrition  and  apology  to  Henry  Taylor  for  hav- 
ing made,  what  I  sec  now,  was  a  flippant  and  offen- 
sive allusion  to  Mrs.  Taylor.  I  am  glad  I  have  done 
it.  I  am  glad  that  so  many  people  whom  I  have 
been  thinking  bigoted  and  unfair  and  unjust  towards 
me,  have  been  right,  and  that  I  have  been  wrong, 
and  my  mind  is  an  immense  deal  easier. 

My  dear ; 

Will  you,  I  mean  Mr.  Brookfield,  like  to  come  to 
Mrs.  S's  sworry  to-night  ?  There  will  be  veiy  pretty 
music,  and  yesterday  when  I  met  her,  I  said  I 
wanted  her  very  much  to  go  and  sing  to  a  sick  lady 
of  my  acquaintance  and  she  said  she  would  with 
the  greatest  pleasui'C  in  the  world  ;  and  I  think  it 
would  be  right  if  Mr.  Brookfield  should  call  upon 
her,  and  I  am  disengaged  on  Wednesday  next 
either  for  evening  or  dinner,  and  Mrs.  Sartoris' 
number  is  99  Eaton  Place,  and  I  am, 

Your  obedient  servant 

W.  I\I.  Thackeray. 

My  dear  Vleux  : 

I  have  told  the  moudie  to  call  for  me  at  the  Punch 
office  at  eight,  and  to  come  roun<l  by  Portman  Street 


Ecftcre  of  ^^ocfierag.  n9 

first.  If  you  nice  you  can  como  and  wg  can  go  to  a 
little  play,  a  little  something,  to  Hampstead  even  if 
you  were  up  to  it.  If  you'd  like  best  to  sit  at  home, 
I'd  like  to  smoke  a  pipe  with  you  ;  if  you'd  like  best 
to  sit  at  home  alone,  I  can  go  about  my  own  busi- 
ness, but  don't  mind  choosing  which  way  of  the 
three  you  prefer,  and 

Believe  mc,  liallu  yours 

W.  M.  T. 

My  dear  sick  Lady  : 

I  send  you  1,  2,  3,  4,  5,  G,  7,  MSS  just  to  amuse 
you  for  ten  minutes.  Annie's  I  am  sure  will ;  isn't 
it  good?  the  perilous  passage,  and  the  wanting  to 
see  me.  The  letters  are  to  ladies  who  bother  me 
about  the  Bath  and  Wash-house  fUe;  and  the 
verses,  marked  2,  were  written  in  a  moment  of  de- 
pression— I  wonder  whether  you  will  like  No.  2  ? 

Virginia  wasn't  at  dinner  after  all,  yesterday. 
Wasn't  that  a  judgment  on  somebody?  She 
stopped  to  take  care  of  a  sick  sister  she  has  ;  but  I 
made  myself  as  happy  as  circumstances  admitted, 
and  drank  your  health  in  a  glass  of  Mr.  Prinsep's 
excellent  claret  ;  one  can't  drink  mere  port  this 
weather. 

When  you  have  read  all  the  little  papers,  please 
put  them  back,  and  send  them  by  the  printer's  devil 
to  their  owner.     It  has  just  crossed  my  mind  that 


i8o  iiCficxB  of  ?!:^acftcrftg. 

you  may  think  it  very  conceited,  ray  sending  j'ou 
notes  to  read,  addressed  to  grand  ladies,  as  if  I  was 
proud  of  my  cleverness  in  writing  tliem,  and  of  be- 
ing in  a  state  of  correspondence  with  such  grand 
persons.  But  I  don't  want  to  show  o£f,  only  to  try 
and  give  you  ever  so  little  amusement,  and  I  don't 
choose  to  think  about  what  other  people  choose  to 
think  about. 

Yours,  dear  ]Mi-s.  Brookfield, 

"W.  M.  Thackeray. 

My  dear  Madam  : 

I  am  always  thinking  of  Mrs.  C —  W —  H —  with 
a  feeling  of  regard,  so  intense  and  incomprehensible, 
that  feeble  words  cannot  give  it  utterance,  and  I 
know  that  only  a  strong  struggle  with  my  interior 
and  a  Principle  which  I  may  say  is  based  on  the 
eternal  data  of  perennial  reminiscences,  can  keep 
this  fluttering  heart  tolerably  easy  and  secure.  But 
what,  what,  is  Memory  ?  l\Iemory  without  Hope  is 
but  a  negative  idiosyncracy,  and  Hope  without 
Memory,  a  plant  that  has  no  root.  Life  has  many 
such,  but  still  I  feel  that  they  are  too  few ;  death 
may  remove  or  in  some  way  modify  their  poig- 
nancy ;  the  future  alone  can  reconcile  tliem  with  the 
irrevocable  fiat  of  yesterday,  and  tomorrow  I  have 
little  doubt  will  laugh  them  into  melancholy  scorn. 
Deem  not  tliat  I  speak  lightly,  or  that  beneath  the 


£cffer6  cf  ^0acfterft)9.  i8i 

mask  of  satire,  any  doubt,  auy  darkness,  any  pleas- 
ure even,  or  foreboding,  can  mingle  with  the  depth 
of  my  truthfulness.  Passion  is  but  a  hyj)Ocrite  and 
a  monitor,  however  barefaced. 

Action,  febrile  continuous  action,  should  be  the 
pole  star  of  our  desolate  being.  If  this  is  not  real- 
ity, I  know  not  what  is.  IMrs.  C.  W.  H.  may  not 
understand  me,  but  you  will. 

FRAGMENT. 

.  .  .  .  And  is  W.  Bullar  going  to  work  upon 
you  with  his  "simple  mysticism?"  I  don't  know 
about  the  Unseen  World ;  the  use  of  the  seen 
World  is  the  right  thing  I'm  sure  ! — it  is  just  as 
much  God's  world  and  Creation  as  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  with  all  the  angels.  How  will  you  make 
yourself  most  happy  in  it?  how  secure  at  least  the 
greatest  amount  of  happiness  compatible  with  your 
condition?  by  despising  to-day,  and  looking  up 
cloudward  ?  Pish.  Let  us  turn  God's  to-day  to  its 
best  use,  as  well  as  any  otlicr  part  of  the  time  He 
gives  us.  When  I  am  on  a  cloud  a-singing,  or  a 
pot  boiling — I  will  do  my  best,  and  if  you  are  ill, 
you  can  have  consolations  ;  if  you  have  disappoint- 
ments, you  can  invent  fresh  sources  of  hope  and 
pleasure.  I'm  glad  you  saw  the  Crowes,  and  that 
they  gave  you  pleasvu-e  ; — and  that  noble  poetry  of 


i82  fecffete  cf  ^^^fierai?. 

Alfred's  gives  you  pleasure  (I'm  liappy  to  say  ma'am 
I've  said  the  very  same  thing  in  prose  that  you  like 
— the  very  same  words  almost).  The  bounties  of 
the  Father  I  believe  to  be  countless  and  inexhaust- 
ible for  most  of  us  here  in  life ;  Love  the  greatest. 
Art  (which  is  an  exquisite  and  admiring  sense  of 
nature)  the  next. — By  Jove  !  Ill  admire,  if  I  can, 
the  wing  of  a  Cock-sparrow  as  much  as  the  pin- 
ion of  an  Archangel ;  and  adore  God  the  Father  of 
the  earth,  first ;  waiting  for  the  completion  of  my 
senses,  and  the  fulfilment  of  His  intentions  towards 
me  afterwards,  when  this  scene  closes  over  us.  So 
when  Bullar  turns  up  his  i  to  the  ceiling,  I'll  look 
straight  at  your  dear  kind  face  and  thank  God  for 
knowing  that,  my  dear  ;  and  though  my  nose  is  a 
broken  pitcher,  yet,  Lo  and  behold  there's  a  Well 
gushing  over  with  kindness  in  my  heart  where  my 
dear  lady  may  come  and  drink.  God-bless  you, — 
and  William  and  little  Magdalene. 


FRAGJfENT. 

I  have  had  the  politest  offer  made  me  to  go  to 
Scotland,  to  Edinburgh,  where  there  is  a  meeting 
of  the  savantH — just  the  tiling  for  mo,  you  know; 
thence  to  the  Highlands  with  Edward  Ellicc ; 
thence  to  Miss  Prince's  friend,  the  Duchess,  who  is 
tlie  most  jovial,  venerable,  pleasant,  and  I  should 


feeffete  of  ?!:^cfterat.  ^^3 

think  too,  a  little  wicked,  old  lady.  And  I  suppose 
I  could  be  franked  through  the  kingdom  from  one 
grandee  to  another  ;  but  it  don't  seem  much  pleas- 
ure or  rest,  does  it?  Best  clothes  every  day,  and 
supporting  conversation  over  three  courses  at  din- 
ner ;  London  over  again.  And  a  month  of  solitary 
idleness  and  wandering  would  be  better  than  that, 
wouldn't  it?  On  the  other  hand  it  is  a  thing  to  do 
and  a  sight  to  see,  sure  to  bo  useful  professionally, 
some  day  or  other,  and  to  come  in  in  some  story 
unborn  as  yet. 

I  did  the  doggerel  verses  which  were  running  in 
my  head  when  I  last  wrote  you,  and  they  are  very 
lively.  You'd  say  the  author  nuist  have  been  in  the 
height  of  good  spirits  ;— no,  you  wouldn't,  knowing 
his  glum  habit  and  dismal  views  of  life  generally. 

We  are  going  on  a  little  holiday  excursion  down 
the  river  to  Blackwall,  to  board  the  American 
Packet-ship,  the  Southampton,  I  tc^ld  3'ou  of  before  ; 
and  shake  hands  witli  the  jolly  captain,  and  see  him 
out  of  the  dock.  Then  the  young  ladies  are  going 
to  Don  Giovanni  in  the  evening,  and  I  to  dine  with 
the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  but  I  want  quiet.     .     .     . 

Do  you  remember  my  telling  3'ou  of  O'Gorman 
INIahon,  bidding  some  ladies  to  beware  of  me  for  I 
could  talk  a  bird  off  a  tree  ?  I  was  rather  pleased 
at  the  expression,  but  O'Gorman  last  Saturday,  took 
me  away  out  of  Lord  Palmerston's  arms,  with  whom 


i84  £cffer0  cf  ^^actiem^?. 

I  was  talking,  and  said  that  some  ladies  had  in- 
formed him,  that  when  he  made  use  of  that  expres- 
sion, my  countenance  assumed  a  look  of  the  most 
diabolical  rage  and  passion,  and  that  I  abused  him, 
O'Gorman  in  the  most  savage  manner.  In  vain  I 
remonstrated,  he'll  believe  it  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

1851. 

Good  Friday. 

Yesterday  evening  in  the  bitter  blast  of  the 
breeze  of  March,  a  Cavalier,  whose  fingers  were  so 
numbed  that  he  scarce  could  hold  the  rein  of  his 
good  steed,  might  have  been  perceived  at  a  door 
in  Portman  Street  in  converse  with  a  footman  in 
dark  green  livery,  and  whose  buttons  bore  the  cog- 
nizance of  the  Well-known  house  of  Brookfield. 
Clouded  with  care  and  anxiety  at  first  the  horse- 
man's countenance  (a  stalwart  and  grey-haired  man 
he  was,  by  our  lady,  and  his  face  bore  the  marks 
of  wounds  received  doubtless  in  early  encounters) 
presently  assumed  a  more  cheerful  aspect  when  he 
heard  from  the  curly-pated  servitor  whom  he  inter- 
rogated that  hi8  Lady's  health  was  better.  "  Gram- 
ercy"  he  of  the  steed  exclaimed  "so  that  she  mend 
I  am  happy  !  happier  still  when  I  may  behold  her  ! 
Carry  my  duty.  Fellow,  to  my  Mistress'  attendant, 
and  tell  her  that  Sir  Titmarsh  hath  been  at  her 
gate."     It  closed  upon  him.     The  horse-man  turned 


Ecffere  of  ^^odtcrag.  i8^ 

liis  charger's  head  home-ward,  and  soon  was  lost  to 
view  iu  the  now  lonely  park. 

I've  been  to  church  already  with  the  young  ones 
— had  a  fine  ride  in  the  country  yesterday — am  go- 
ing to  work  directly  this  note  goes  off — and  am  ex- 
ceedingly well  and  jolly  in  health.  I  think  this  is 
all  my  news.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Elliot  has  been  very 
bad  but  is  mending.  I  dined  there  last  night.  She 
was  on  the  sofa,  and  I  thought  about  her  kind  face 
coming  in  to  me  (along  side  of  another  kind-face) 
when  I  was  ill.  What  numbers  of  good  folks  there 
are  iu  the  world  !  Fred.  Elliot  would  do  anything, 
I  believe,  to  help  me  to  a  place.  Old  Miss  Berry  is 
very  kind  too,  nothing  can  be  kinder  ;  but  I  will  go 
back  to  my  poetry  for  Punch,  such  as  it  is,  and  say 
good-bye  to  my  dear  lady  and  Miss  Brookfield  and 
Mr. 

W.  M.  T. 

[  1851  ] 
Mesdames : 

You  mustn't  trust  the  honest  Scotsman,  who  is 
such  a  frantic  admirer  that  nothing  less  than  a 
thousand  people  will  content  him.  I  had  a  hun- 
dred subscribers  and  two  hundred  other  people  for 
the  first  lecture.  Isn't  that  handsome?  It  is  such 
a  good  audience  that  I  begin  to  reflect  about  going 
to  America  so  soon.  Why,  if  so  much  money  is  to 
be  made  iu  this  empire,  not  go  through  with  the 


i86  £effer0  of  ^^cvcftera^. 

business  and  get  what  is  to  be  had  ?    The  Melgunds 

I  saw  at  the  sermon,  and  the  Edinburgh  big-wigs  in 

plenty-.     The  M's  hve  over  the  way,  I  go  to  see  them 

directly  and  thank  them.     And  I  Hke  to  tell  you  of 

my  ffood  luck,  and  am  always  yours, 

W.  M.  T, 


15  July,  1851. 

The  happy  family  has  scarce  had  a  moment's  i-est 
since  we  left  the  St.  Katherine's  wharf,  and  this  is 

wrote  on  board  the  steamer in  the  Rhine,  with 

ever  so  many  fine  views  at  my  back, — Minnie  on 
t'other  side  writing  to  her  grandmother,  and  Annie 
reading  her  father's  works  in  the  Tauchnitz  edition. 
It  has  not  been  a  very  brilliant  journey  hitherto, 
but  the  little  ones  are  satisfied,  that's  the  main  point. 
The  packet  to  Antwerp  was  awful,  a  storm,  and  a  jib 
carried  away,  and  a  hundred  women  being  sick  on 
the  cabin  floor  all  night.  The  children  ^ery  unwell, 
but  behaving  excellently  ;  their  pa,  tranquil  under 
a  table  and  not  in  the  least  sick,  for  a  wonder. 

We  passed  the  day,  Friday,  at  Antwerp,  when  I 
hope  his  reverence  came  home  to  you  better.  And 
it  was  very  pleasant  going  about  with  the  children, 
walking  and  lionising.  Yesterday,  we  got  up  at  five 
and  rushed  to  Cologne  ;  today  we  rose  at  four,  and 
rushed  to  Mayence.  We  shall  sleep  at  Wiesbaden 
or  at  Frankfurt  tonight,  as  the  fancy  siezes  me  ;  and 


shall  get  on  to  Heidelberg,  then  to  Basle,  then  to 
Berne,  «&  so  on  to  Como,  Milan,  Venice,  if  it  don't 
cost  too  much  inoue}'.  I  suppose  you  are  going  to 
church  at  this  time,  and  know  the  bells  of  Knights- 
bridge  are  tolling.  If  I  don't  go  to  church  myself 
(but  I  do,  here,  this  instant,  opposite  the  young 
ones)  I  know  who  will  say  a  God  bless  me.     .     .     . 

I  bought  KicJdeburij^,  Rebecca  and  Itoiveva,  and 
the  Rhine  Story  and  read  them  through  with  im- 
mense pleasure.  Do  you  know  I  think  all  three 
Capital,  and  R  and  R.  not  only  made  me  laugh  but 
the  other  thing.  Here's  pretty  matter  to  send  a 
lady  from  a  tour !  Well,  I  know  you  like  to  hear 
my  praises  and  I  am  glad  to  send  them  to  you. 
They  are  putting  off  a  flat-bottomed  boat  from  the 
shore — they  are  putting  out  the  tables  for  dinner. 
I  will  lock  up  ray  paper  and  finish  my  letter  at  some 
future  halting-place,  and  so  good-bye  dear  lady. 

Wiesbaden.  The  first  minute  to  myself  since  we 
came  away,  and  that  in  a  ground  floor  closet,  where 
it  has  been  like  sleeping  in  the  street, — the  whole 
house  passing  by  it.  It  is  the  Hotel  de  la  Rose. 
Annie  and  Minnie  are  put  away  somewhere  in  the 
top  of  the  house,  and  this  minute  at  six  in  the  morn- 
ing, on  the  parade,  they  have  begun  music.  The 
drive  hither  last  night  from  the  steamer  was  the 
most  beautiful  thing  which  has  happened  to  us  yet, 
and  a  view  of  the  Rhine  at  Sunset,  seen  from  a 


1 88  Ectfere  cf  ^^adtcra^. 

height,  as  lovely'  as  Pai'adise.  This  was  the  first  fine 
day  we  have  had,  aud  the  splendour  of  the  land- 
scape-colours souietliing  marvellous  to  gaze  upon. 
If  Switzerland  is  better  than  this,  we  shall  be  in  a 
delirium.  It  is  affecting  to  see  Annie's  hajopiness. 
My  dear  noble  creature,  always  magnanimous  and 
gentle.  I  sat  with  the  children  aud  talked  with 
them  about  their  mother  last  night.  .  .  .  It  is 
iny  pleasure  to  tell  them  how  humble-minded  their 
mother  was,  how  humble  n:iinded  you  are,  my  dear 
lady.  They  bid  me  to  the  bath,  I  rise,  I  put  on  my 
scarlet  gownd,  I  go. 

Thursday  morning.  Again  six  o'clock.  Ileidel- 
hcrrj.  After  the  bath  and  the  breakfast  we  discov- 
ered that  we  were  so  uncomfortable  at  that  most 
comfortable  inn  the  Rose,  without  having  the  least 
prospect  of  bettering  ourselves,  that  we  determined 
on  quitting  Wiesbaden,  though  Mrs.  Stewart  Mac- 
kenzie had  arranged  a  party  for  us,  to  see  the  Duke's 
garden, — an  earthly  paradise  according  to  her  ac- 
count,— and  though  in  the  walk,  a  taking  his  waters, 
whom  should  I  see,  but  T.  Parr,  Esquii-e,  and  I 
promised  to  go  and  see  him  and  your  sister.  But 
Dieu  dispone,  and  we  cjimc;  off  to  Frankfurt  and  took 
a  can'iage  there  for  two  hours  and  a  half  and  in- 
spected the  city  and  then  made  for  Heidelberg 
which  M'c  reached  at  G.},  too  late  for  anything  but 
dinner  aud  a  sleep  afterwards,  in  the  noisiest  street 


Eetfere  of  ^^fkrag.  i8q 

I  ever  slep  in  ;  and  tbei'e  were  other  causes  for  want 
of  rest,  and  so  I  got  me  up  at  five  and  soothed  my- 
self with  the  pleasant  cigar  of  morn. 

My  dear  lady,  the  country  is  very  pretty,  zwischen 
Frankfurt  and  Heidelberg,  esi:)ecially  some  fantastical 
little  mountains,  the  Melibocus  range,  of  queer  shapes, 
starting  out  of  the  plain,  capped  with  darkling  pine 
forests  and  ruined  castles,  covered  with  many  coloured 
crops  and  based  by  peaceful  little  towns  with  old 
towers  and  walls.  And  all  these  things  as  I  behold, 
I  wish  that  somebody's  eyes  could  see  them  likewise ; 
and  R!  I  should  like  a  few  days  rest,  and  to  see 
nothing  but  a  shady  wood  and  a  tolerably  stupid 
book  to  doze  over. 

Wo  had  Kingsley  and  his  parents  from  Antwei*p  ; 
a  fine  honest  go-ahead  fellow,  who  charges  a  subject 
])eartily,  impetuously,  with  the  gi'eatest  courage  and 
simplicity ;  but  with  narrow  eyes  (his  are  extraordi- 
narily brave,  blue  and  honest),  and  with  little  knowl- 
edge of  the  woi'ld,  I  think.  But  ho  is  superior  to  us 
worldlings  in  many  ways,  and  I  wish  I  had  some  of 
his  honest  pluck.  And  so  my  stupid  paper  is  full, 
and  I  send  my  love  to  you  and  yours. 

Thursday,  17th.    [July,  18.51] 

Yesterday  was  a  golden  day,  the  pleasantest  of  the 
journey  as  yet.  The  day  before  we  got  to  Baden- 
Baden  ;  and  I  had  a  notion  of  staying,  say  two  or 


I  go  feettere  of  ^^^fierag. 

three  Jays,  having  found  an  agreeable  family  acquaint- 
ance or  two,  Madame  de  Bonneval,  sister  of  Miss 
Galway,  with  whom  w^e  went  to  the  hippodrome,  & 
M.  Martchenko,  that  nice  Russian  who  gave  me  ci- 
gars and  flattered  me  last  year  ;  but  the  weather  be- 
ginning to  be  bad,  and  the  impure  atmosphere  of  the 
pretty,  witty  gambling  place  not  good  for  my  young 
ones,  we  came  away  by  the  Basel  railroad  in  the  first- 
class,  like  princes.  A  most  delightful  journey  through 
the  delicious  landscape  of  plain  and  mountains,  which 
seemed  to  Switzify  themselves  as  we  came  towards 
here;  and  the  day's  rest  here  has  not  been  least 
pleasant,  though,  or  perhaps  because,  it  rained  all  the 
morning  and  I  was  glad  to  lie  on  the  sofa  and  smoke 
my  cigar  in  peace.  On  Tuesday  at  Baden  it  was 
pretty.  Having  been  on  duty  for  five  days,  I  went 
out  for  a  solitary  walk,  and  was  finding  myself  tant 
Hoil  peu  tired  of  my  dear  little  companions  ;  and  met 
Madame  de  Bonneval,  who  proposed  a  little  tea,  and 
a  little  society  &c.  ;  and  when  I  came  back  to  the 
inn,  there  was  Annie,  with  Minnie  on  her  knees,  and 
telling  her  a  story  with  a  sweet  maternal  kindness 
and  patience,  God  bless  her.  This  touched  me  very 
much  and  I  didn't  leave  them  again  till  bedtime,  and 
didn't  go  to  tlie  rouge-el-noir  and  only  for  half  an 
hour  to  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Bonneval, — from 
whose  society  I  determined  to  escaj:)e  next  day,— 
and  we  agreed  it  was  the  pleasantest  day  we  had 


£etter0  of  ^^ociterag.  191 

liacl ;  and  Minnie  laid  out  the  table  of  the  first  class 
carriage  (they  are  like  little  saloons  and  delightful 
to  travel  in)  with  all  the  contents  of  the  travelling 
bag,  books,  o  de  Cologne,  ink  ttc.  ;  and  we  had  good 
trout  for  supper  at  nine  o'clock  ;  and  today,  at  two, 
we  walked  out  and  wandered  very  pleasantly  for 
two  hours  and  a  half  about  the  town  and  round  it ; 
and  Ave  are  very  hungry  ;  and  we  hope  the  dinner 
bell  will  ring  soon — and  tomorrow  I  am  forty  years 
old,  and  hope  to  find  at  Berne  a  letter  from  my  dear 
lady.  You  see  one's  letters  must  be  stupid,  for  they 
are  written  only  when  I  am  tired  and  just  come  off 
duty ;  but  the  sweet  young  ones'  happiness  is  an 
immense  pleasure  to  me,  and  these  calm  sweet  land- 
scapes bring  me  calm  and  delight  too;  the  bright 
green  pastures,  and  the  soft  flowing  river  (under  my 
window  now)  and  the  purple  pine-covered  moun- 
tains, with  the  clouds  llickering  round  them — O  ! 
Lord !  how  much  better  it  is  than  riding  in  the 
Park  and  going  to  dinner  at  eight  o'clock  !  I  won- 
der whether  a  residence  in  this  country  would  en- 
noble one's  thoughts  permanently,  and  get  them 
away  from  mean  quarrels,  intrigues,  pleasures? 
make  me  write  good  books — turn  poet  perhaps  or 
orator — and  get  out  of  that  business  of  London — 
in  which  there  is  one  good  thing?  Ah,  one  good 
thing,  and  God  bless  her  always  and  always,  I 
see  my  dear  lady  and  her  little  girl  ;  itax  be  with 


ig2  Eetfere  of  ^^ocftcrag. 

them.     Is  it  only  a  week  that  we  are  gone,  it  seems 
a  year. 

Ber7ie.  Saturday  IWi.  Faucon. — I  must  tell  you 
that  I  asked  at  Heidelberg  at  the  post  only  by  Avay 
of  a  joke,  and  never  so  much  as  expecting  a  half- 
penny worth  of  letter  from  you  ;  but  here  I  went  off 
to  the  post  as  sure  as  fate.  Thinks  I,  it  being  my 
birthday  yesterday  there  must  be  a  little  something 
waiting  for  me  at  the  posle  restante,  but  the  deuce  a 
bit  of  a  little  something.  Well  I  hope  you're  quite 
well,  and  I'm  sure  you'd  write  if  something  hadn't 
prevented  you,  and  at  Milan  or  at  Venice  I  hope  for 
better  fortune.  We  had  the  most  delightful  ride 
yesterday  from  Basel,  going  through  a  country 
which  I  suppose  prepares  one  for  the  splendider 
scenery  of  the  Alps  ;  kind  good-natured  little  moun- 
tains, not  too  awful  to  look  at,  but  encouraging  in 
appearance,  and  leading  us  gradually  up  to  the 
enormities  which  we  are  to  contemplate  in  a  day  or 
two.  A  steady  rain  fell  all  day,  but  this,  as  it  only 
served  to  make  otlicr  people  uncomfortable,  (espe- 
cially the  six  Belgian  fellow-trav(;llers  in  the  Bei- 
wagen,  which  leaked,  and  in  which  they  must  have 
had  a  desperate  time)  rather  added  to  our  own  i^leas- 
ure,  snug  in  tlie  coiqjk  We  have  secured  it  for  to- 
morrow to  Lucerne,  and  today  for  the  first  time 
since  our  journey  there's  a  fine  bright  sun  out,  and 
the  sight  we  have  already  had  of  tliis  most  pictu- 


feetfere  of  ^^ftemg.  193 

resque  of  all  towns,  gives  mo  a  zest  for  that  fine  walk 
whicli  we  are  goiug  to  fetch  presently.  I  have  made 
only  one  sketch  in  this  note ;  best  not  make  foolish 
sketches  of  buildings,  but  look  about  and  see  the 
beautiful  pictures  done  for  you  by  Nature  benefi- 
cent. .  It  is  almost  the  first  place  I  have  seen  in 
Europe  Avhere  the  women  actually  wear  costumes — 
in  Rome  only  the  women  who  get  up  for  the  paint- 
ers dress  differently  from  other  folks.  Travelling  as 
Paterfamilias,  with  a  daughter  in  each  hand,  I  don't 
like  to  speak  to  our  country  folks  ;  but  give  myself 
airs,  rather,  and  keep  off  from  them.  If  I  were 
alone  I  should  make  up  to  everybody.  You  don't 
see  things  so  well  a  ti-ois  as  you  do  alone  ;  you  aro 
an  English  gentleman  ;  yovi  are  shy  of  queer-look- 
ing or  queer-speaking  people  ;  you  are  in  the  coupe  ; 
you  are  an  earl ; — confound  your  impudence,  if  you 
had  £5000  a  year  and  were  Tomparr,  Esq.,  you 
could  not  behave  yourself  more  high  and  mightily. 
Ah  !  I  recollect  ten  years  back,  a  poor  devil  looking 
wistfully  at  the  few  napoleons  in  his  govsset,  and 
giving  himself  no  airs  at  all.  He  was  a  better  fel- 
low than  the  one  you  know  perhaps  ;  not  that  our 
characters  alter,  only  they  develop  and  our  minds 
grow  grey  and  bald,  kc.  I  was  a  boy  ten  3'ears  ago, 
bleating  out  my  simple  cries  in  the  Great  Hoggarty 
diamond.  We  have  seen  many  pretty  children,  two 
especially,  sitting  in  a  little  tub  by  the  roadside; 
13 


194  £effer0  of  ^^ocfierap. 

but  we  agree  that  there  is  none  so  pretty  as  baby 
Broolifield,  we  wisli  for  her  and  for  her  mother,  I 
beHeve.  This  is  a  briUiaut  hind  of  a  tour  isn't  it  ? 
egotistical  twaddle.  I've  forgot  the  lectures  as  much 
as  if  they  had  never  been  done,  and  my  impression 
is  that  they  were  a  failure.  Come  along  young  la- 
dies, we'll  go  a  walk  imtil  dinner  time,  and  keep 
the  remainder  of  this  sheet  (sacrificing  the  picture, 
as  after  all,  why  shouldn't  we  ?  such  a  two-j^enny 
absurd  thing?)  and  folding  the  sheet  up  in  a  differ- 
ent way.  So  good  bye  lady,  and  I  send  you  a  G 
and  a  B  and  a  Y. 

Lucerne.  AFonday  morning. — We  are  in  love  with 
Berne.  We  agree  that  we  should  like  to  finish  our 
lives  there,  it  is  so  homely,  charming  and  beautiful, 
without  knowing  it ;  whereas  this  place  gives  itself 
the  airs  of  a  beauty  and  ofifends  me  somehow.  We 
are  in  an  inn  like  a  town,  bells  begin  at  four  in 
the  morning,  two  hours  ago,  and  at  present  all  the 
streets  of  the  hotel  are  alive  ;  we  are  not  going  up 
the  Righi ;  Y  should  we  go  up  a  dimmed  mountain 
to  see  a  dimmed  map  under  our  feet  ?  We  are  go- 
ing on  to  Milan  pretty  quick.  The  day  after  to- 
morrow we  sliall  sail  down  the  Major  lake,  we  hope 
to  Sosto  Calendi  and  so  to  Milan.  I  wonder 
whether  you  have  written  to  me  to  Como  ?  Well,  I 
would  have  bet  five  to  one  on  a  letter  at  Berne ; 
but  such  is  life  and  such  is  woman,  that  the  philos- 


£cffer6  of  ^^acfterap.  195 

opher  must  not  reckon  on  either.  And  what  news 
would  you  have  sent?  that  the  baby  is  well,  that 
you  have  enjoyed  yourself  pretty  well  at  Sevenoaks  ? 
— I  would  give  Q^  to  hear  as  much  as  that.     Such  is 

[  Here  a  draioing  in  the  original  letter  ] 

a  feeble  but  accurate  outline  of  the  view  out  of  my 
window  at  this  moment,  and  all  the  time  I  am 
drawing  it,  (you  will  remark  how  pleasantly  the 
firs  and  pastures  in  the  foreground  are  indicat- 
ed, whereas  I  cannot  do  anything  with  ink,  being- 
black,  to  represent  the  snow  on  the  mountains  be- 
hind) I  am  making  pretty  dramatic  sketches  in  my 
mind  of  misfortune  happening  to  you, — that  you 
ai-e  unwell,  that  you  are  thrown  out  of  a  carriage, 
that  Dr.  Locock  is  in  attendance,  que  sais-je  ? 

As  for  my  dear  young  ones  I  am  as  happy  with 
them  as  possible  ;  Annie  is  a  fat  lump  of  pure  gold, 
the  kindest  dearest  creature,  as  well  as  a  wag  of  the 
first  water.  It  is  an  immense  blessing  that  Heaven 
has  given  me  such  an  artless  aifectionate  compan- 
ion. "We  were  looking  at  a  beautiful,  smiling,  inno- 
cent view  at  Berne,  on  Saturday,  and  she  said  "  it's 
like  Baby  Brookfield."  There's  for  you!  and  so  it 
was  like  innocence,  and  brightness,  and  &c.  &c.  Oh  ! 
may  she  never  fall  in  love  absurdly  and  marry  an 
ass  !  If  she  will  but  make  her  father  her  confidant, 
I  think  the  donkey  won't  long  keep  his  ground  in 


19^  feeffers  of  ^^cSerai?. 

her  heart.     And  so  the  paper  is  full  and  must  go  to 
England  without  ever  so  much  as  saying  thank  you 
for  your  letter.     Good-bye  my  dear  lady,  good-bye 
Miss  Brookfield,  Good-bye  Mi\  Brookiield,  says 
Your  affectionate, 


Au  Suisse,  July  21st. 


[fragment] 


W.  M.  T. 


Pakis,  1851. 


A  Stoiy  with  a  Moral. 

Last  night  I  went  to  a  party  at  the  house  of  my 
mother's  friend  Madame  Colemache  (who  introduced 
me  to  Madame  Ancelot  the  authoress,  who  was  dy- 
ing to  see  me,  said  Madame  Colemache,  only  I  found 
on  talking  to  Madame  Ancelot  that  she  didn't 
know  who  I  was,  and  so  was  no  more  dying  than 
the  most  lively  of  us)  and  coming  down  stairs  with 
my  Ma  I  thought  to  myself,  I  will  go  home  and 
have  an  hour's  chat  with  her,  and  try  and  cheer  and 
console  her,  for  her  sad  tragic  looks  melted  my 
heart,  and  always  make  me  think  I  am  a  cruel  mon- 
ster ;  and  so  I  was  very  tender  and  sentimental  and 
you  see  caressed  her  filially  as  we  went  down.  It 
was  a  wet  night  and  the  fly  was  waiting,  and  she 
was  just  going  to  step  in — but  there  entered  at  the 
house  door  a  fiddler  with  his  fiddle  under  his  arm, 
whom  when  dear  old  BLatcr  dolorosa  beheld,  she  said, 


Eefterg  of  ^^cfteraj?.  197 

"  O  !  that  is  ^Monsieur  lai  tel  wlio  has  come  to  play 
a  duo  with  Laure  ;  I  must  go  back  and  hear  him." 
Aud  back  she  went,  and  all  my  sentimentality  was 
gulped  down  and  I  came  home  and  sent  the  fly 
back  two  miles  for  her,  with  Jeames  to  escort  her  in 
the  rain.  The  Moral  is  that  women  with  those  mel- 
ancholy eyes,  aud  sad,  sad  looks  are  not  always  so 
melancholy  as  they  seem  ;  they  have  consolations, 
— amusements,  fiddlers,  kc. 

I  am  happy,  as  happy  as  I  can  be  here,  which  is 
pretty  well,  though  I  am  bored  daily  and  nightly, 
and  di-ag  about  sulkily  from  tea  party  to  tea  party. 
Last  night  my  mother  had  her  little  T,  and  they 
danced,  and  it  was  not  at  all  unpleasant  quand  on 
y  etait.  I  found  an  old  school-fellow,  looking  ten 
years  younger  than  myself,  whom  I  remember  older 
and  bigger  than  myself  twenty-eight  years  ago  ;  and 
he  had  got  a  charming  young  wdfe,  quite  civilized 
and  pleasant  to  talk  to,  and  the  young  ladies  had 
their  new  frocks  and  looked  tolerably  respectable, 
and  exceedingly  happy.  They  are  to  go  to  a  party 
on  Monday,  and  another  on  Wednesday,  and  on 
Thursday  (D.  V)  we  shall  be  on  the  homeward  road 
again. 

I  had  cuddled  myself  with  the  notion  of  having 
one  evening  to  myself,  one  quiet  dinner,  one  quiet 
place  at  the  play  ;   but   my  mother  took  my  only 


/9<5  feeffers  of  t^ac^crai^, 

evening  and  gave  it  to  an  old  lady  whom  I  don't 
want  to  see,  and  who  would  have  done  very  well 
without  me, — was  there  ever  such  a  victim  ?  I  go 
about  from  house  to  house  and  grumble  everywhere. 
I  say  Thursday,  D.  V.,  for  what  mayn't  haj^pen? 
My  poor  cousin  Charlotte  has  a  relaj)se  of  rheumat- 
ic fever  ;  my  Aunt  is  in  a  dreadful  prostration  and 
terror.  "  If  anything  hapjDens  to  Charlotte,"  she  says, 
'•  I  shall  die,  and  then  what  will  Jane  do?  " 

There's  a  kind  of  glum  pleasure,  isn't  there,  in  sit- 
ting by  sick  beds  and  trying  to  do  one's  best  ?  I 
took  the  old  G.  P.,  to  dinner  at  a  Cafe  yesterday,  be- 
fore the  soii'ee ;  he  is  very  nice  and  kind  and  gen- 
tle  

Well,  on  Wednesday  I  am  going  to  dine  with  the 
Prefet  de  Police,  and  afterwards  to  Madame  Scri- 
vanacks  ball,  where  I  shall  meet, — I,  an  old  fellow 
of  forty — all  the  pretty  actresses  of  Paris.  Let  us 
give  a  loose  to  pleasure 

Mamma  and  I  went  to  see  the  old  lady  last  night, 
— Lady  Elgin  an  honest,  grim,  big,  clever  old  Scotch 
lady,  well  read  and  good  to  talk  to,  dealing  in  relig- 
ions of  many  denominations,  and  having  established 
in  her  house  as  a  sort  of  director,  Mr.  C.  one  of  the 
beads  of  the  L-vingites  a  clever,  shifty,  sneaking 
man.  I  wish  I  had  had  your  story  of  INIanning ;  that 
would  have  been  conversation,  but  your  note  didn't 


Eetfere  of  ^^odtcrai?.  199 

arrive  till  this  morning.  Tlinnk  you,  and  I  hope  you 
are  very  well 

I  hope  you  will  like  good  old  Miss  Agnes  Berry  ; 
I  am  sui-e  you  will,  and  shall  he  glad  that  you  be- 
long to  that  kind  and  polite  set  of  old  ladies  and 
worthy  gentlemen.  Mr.  Williams  too,  will  approve 
of  them,  I  should  think.  I  don't  know  any  bet- 
ter company  than  Foley  Wilmot  and  Poodle  Byng. 
Pass  quickly  Sunday,  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednes- 
day. Shall  I  let  Kensington,  with  ten  beds,  to  an 
Exhibition-seeing  party  and  live  alone  ?  Will  you 
take  a  lodger  who  will  lend  you  a  fly  to  go  to  the 
parties  which  you  will  be  continually  frequenting  ? 
Ah  !  that  would  be  pleasant. 

My  cousin  Charlotte  was  much  better  yesterday, 

thank  God,  and   her  mother  quiet.     I   have   been 

visiting  the  sick  here, — one,  two,  three,  every  day. 

I  want  to  begin  to  write  again   very  much  ;    my 

mighty  mind  is  tired  of  idleness,  and  ill  employs  the 

intervals  of  rest.     .     .     . 

W.  M.  T. 

and  I  are  going  out  for  a  little  ride  in  half 


an  hour,  so  that  I  have  plenty  of  time  to  send  a  let- 
ter to  3'ou.  The  place  here  is  a  neat  little  thing 
enough,  small  and  snug,  with  a  great  train  of  maiso^ 
and  not  more  than  twenty  thousand  acres  about  thq 
house  ;  nothing  compared  to  Gulston,  Rumblebcrry, 


200  £etfcr0  of  ^^ocfterai?. 

Crumply,  and  most  of  tlie  places  to  which  one  is  ae- 
customed,  but  very  well,  you  understand  me,  for  peo- 
ple of  a  certain  rank  of  life.  One  can  be  happy  with 
many  little  desagrements,  when  one  sees  that  the 
people  are  determined  to  be  civil  to  one.     Nobody 

here  but and  the  Duchess,  who  don't  show  at 

breakfast,  and^no,  I  won't  go  on  writing  this 
dreary  nonsense,  which  was  begun  before  I  went 
out  for  a  long  walk  and  then  for  a  ride.  Both  wer^ 
exceedingly  pleasant,  for  there  is  a  beautiful  park 
and  gardens  and  conservatories,  and  only  to  see 
the  ducks  on  the  water,  and  the  great  big  lime  trees 
in  the  avenue,  gives  one  the  keenest  sensual  pleas- 
ure. The  wind  seemed  to  me  to  blow  floods  of 
health  into  my  lungs,  and  the  man  I  was  walking 
with  was  evidently  amused  by  the  excitement  and 
enjoyment  of  his  companion.  I  recollect  His  Rev- 
erence at  Clevedon  being  suri:)rised  at  my  boyish 
delight  on  a  similar  occasion.  It  is  worth  living  in 
Loutlon,  surely,  to  enjoy  the  country  when  you  get 
to  it  ;  and  when  you  go  to  a  man's  grounds  and  get 
into  raptures  concerning  them,  jiointiug  their  beau- 
ties out  with  eagerness  and  feeling,  perhaps  the  host 
gets  a  better  opinion  of  his  own  havings  and  be- 
longings. 

At  this  juncture  I  actually  fell  aslee^^,  being  quite 
tired  out  with  walking,  riding,  and  fresh  air.  What 
a  gale  there  is  blowing,  and  what  a  night  your  sister 


feetfere  of  ^^cfierap.  201 

must  have  had  to  cross  !  My  lady  has  been  un- 
commoiily  gracious,  aud  has  one  of  the  sweetest 
voices  I  ever  heard,  "au  excellent  thing  in  woman." 
But  I  am  not  at  my  ease  yet  with  her,  and  tremble 
rather  before  her.  She  is  in  a  great  state  of  suffer- 
ing, I  can  see  though,  and  fancy  I  understand  the 
reason  thereof 

I  rode  with  Lord  Ashburton  to  Alresford,  where 
I  heard  the  magistrates'  sessions  held,  and  saw 
the  squires  an-ive.  It  was  very  good  fun  for 
me.  There  was  a  sentimental  case,  which  somebody 
would  have  liked  ;  as  handsome  a  young  couple  as 
I  ever  saw — the  girl  really  beautiful,  and  the  man 
a  deceiver, — and,  and, — there  was  a  little  baby,  and 
he  was  condemned  to  pay  1,0  a  week  for  keeping 
it ;  but  Lord  what  it  would  be  to  live  in  that  dreary 
old  country  town  !  It  is  good  to  see  though,  and 
to  listen  to  the  squires,  and  the  talk  about  hunting, 
aud  the  scandal,  and  admire  the  wonderful  varieties 
of  men.  We  met  the  little  girl  and  the  baby  trudg- 
ing home,  sometime  afterwards,  aud  the  curate  in 
her  wake.  There  seemed  no  sort  of  shame  about 
the  business,  nor  love,  nor  tears,  as  far  as  one  could 
see  ;  not  a  halfpenny  worth  of  romance  ;  only  when 
the  child  squalled,  the  mother,  who  was  very  fond 
of  it,  nursed  it,  and  that  made  a  pretty  picture. 

What  a  stupid  letter  I  am  writing  !  I  have  noth- 
ing to  say  ;  I  left  ray  portmanteau  in  London,  at  the 


202  £,etfer0  of  ^^acftemt?. 

station,  and  was  obliged  to  dine  in  a  frock  coat. 
I  hadn't  enough  clothes  to  my  bed,  and  couldn't 
sleep  much 

a  fragment. 

From  the  Guange. 

The  Bishop  and  a  number  of  clergy  are  coming 
here  to-morrow  and  so  I  stay  on  for  a  couple  of 
days.  Yesterday  it  rained  without,  and  I  was  glad 
to  remain  in  my  room  the  greater  part  of  the  day 
and  to  make  a  good  fire  and  prepare  myself  for 
work.  But  I  did  none  ;  it  wouldn't  come — sleep 
came  instead,  and  between  it  and  the  meals  and 
reading  Alton  Locke — the  day  passed  away.  To- 
day we  have  had  a  fine  walk — to  Trench's  parson- 
age,' a  pretty  place  3  miles  off,  through  woods  of  a 
hundred  thousand  colours.  The  Poet  was  absent 
but  his  good-natured  wife  came  to  see  us  ; — by  Us 
I  mean  me.  Lady  Ashburton,  and  Miss  Farrer, 
who  walked  as  aide  de  camp  by  my  lady's  pony. 
How  is  it  that  I  find  myself  humbling  before  her 
and  taking  a  certain  parasitical  air  as  all  the  rest 
do  ?  There's  something  commanding  in  the  woman 
(she  was  born  in  180G  you'll  understand)  and  I  see 
we  all  of  us  bow  down  defore  her.  Why  don't  we 
bow  down  before  you  ma'am.  Little  Mrs.  Taylor 
is  the  only  one  who  doesn't  seem  to  Kotoo.     I  like 

'  The  Rev.  R.  C.  Trench,  afterwards  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  was 
at  Trinity  College  with  Mr.  Thackcra}'. 


fcctters  of  ^^cfterag.  20^ 

Taylor,'  whoso  grandeur  wears  off  in  ten  minutes, 
and  in  whom  one  i")erceives  an  extremely  gentle  and 
loving  human  creature  I  think — not  a  man  to  he  in- 
timate with  ever,  but  to  admire  and  like  from  a  dis- 
tance and  to  have  a  sort  of  artistical  good  will  to.  . 
.  .'  We  have  Carlyle  coming  down  directly  the 
Taylors  go  away.  Major  Rawlinson  arrives  to-night. 
.  .  .  I've  been  reading  in  Alton  Locke — Bailie 
Cochrane,  Keneally's  Goethe — and  a  book  on  the 
decadence  of  La  France  proved  by  figures,  and 
showing  that  the  French  are  not  increasing  in 
wealth  or  numbers  near  so  fast  as  the  English, 
Prussians,  Russians.  Bailie  Cochrane  is  an  amus- 
ing fellow,  amusing  from  his  pomposity  and  historic 
air  ;  and  Alton  Locke  begins  to  be  a  bore,  I  think  ; 
and  Keneally's  Goethe  is  the  work  of  a  mad-cap 
with  a  marvellous  facility  of  versifying ;  and  I 
should  like  Annie  and  Minnie  to  go  to  my  dear  lady 
on  Wednesday  if  you  will  have  them. 

1852. 
March  18th,  1853,  Kensington. 

My  Dear  Wm. : 

I  have  just  received  your  kind  message  and  mel- 
ancholy news.  Thank  you  for  thinking  that  I'm  in- 
terested in  what  concerns  you,  and  sympathise  in 

'  Henry  Taylor,  author  c£  Philip  Van  Artcvcldc, — aftei°wards 
Sir  Henry  Taylor. 


204  feeffere  of  ^^ocfterai?. 

what  gives  you  pleasure  or  grief.  Well,  I  don't 
think  there  is  much  more  than  this  to-day :  but  I 
recall  what  you  have  said  in  our  many  talks  of  your 
father,  and  remember  the  aftection  and  respect  witli 
wliich  you  always  regarded  and  spoke  of  him.  Wh(\ 
would  wish  for  more  than  honour,  love,  obedience 
and  a  tranquil  end  to  old  age  ?  And  so  that  gen- 
eration which  engendered  us  passes  away,  and  their 
place  knows  them  not  ;  and  our  turn  comes  when 
we  are  to  say  good  bye  to  our  joys,  struggles,  pains, 
affections — and  our  young  ones  will  grieve  and  be 
consoled  for  us  and  so  on.  We've  lived  as  much  in 
40  as  your  good  old  father  in  his  four  score  years, 
don't  3'ou  think  so? — and  how  awfully  tired  and 
lonely  we  are.  I  picture  to  myself  the  placid  face 
of  the  kind  old  father  with  all  that  trouble  and 
doubt  over — his  life  expiring  with  supreme  bless- 
ings for  you  all — for  you  and  Jane  and  unconscious 
little  Magdalene  prattling  and  laughing  at  life's 
threshold  ;  and  know  that  you  will  be  tenderly 
fheered  and  consoled  by  the  good  man's  blessing 
for  tiie  three  of  you  ;  while  yet,  but  a  minute,  but 
yesterday,  but  all  eternity  ago,  he  was  here  loving 
and  suffering.  I  go  on  with  the  paper  before  me — 
I  know  there's  nothing  to  say — but  I  assure  you  of 
my  sympathy  and  that  I  am  yours  my  dear  old 
friend  alftly, 

W.  M.  Thackeuay. 


betters  of  ^^ftem^.  205 


Clarendon  Hotki.,  New  York. 
Tuesday,  23  Dec.  [1S52] 

Mfy  Dear  Lady : 

I  send  you  a  little  line  and  shake  your  hand  across 
the  water.     God  bless  you  and  yours.     .     .     . 

The  passage  is  nothing,  now  it  is  over  ;  I  am  rath- 
er ashamed  of  gloom  and  disquietude  about  svich 
a  trifling  journey.  I  have  made  scores  of  new  ac- 
quaintances and  lighted  on  my  legs  as  usual.  I 
didn't  expect  to  like  people  as  I  do,  but  am  agree- 
ably disappointed  and  find  many  most  pleasant  com- 
panions, natural  and  good  ;  natural  and  well  read 
and  well  bred  too  ;  and  I  suppose  am  none  the 
worse  pleased  because  everybody  has  read  all  my 
books  and  praises  my  lectures  ;  (I  preach  in  a  Uni- 
tarian Church,  and  the  parson  comes  to  hear  me. 
His  name  is  Mr.  Bellows,  it  isn't  a  pretty  name),  and 
there  are  2,000  people  nearly  who  come,  and  the 
lectures  are  so  well  liked  that  it  is  probable  I  shall 
do  them  over  again.  So  really  there  is  a  chance 
of  making  a  pretty  little  sum  of  money  for  old  age, 
imbecility,  and  those  young  ladies  afterwai'ds. 

Had  Lady  Ashburton  told  you  of  the  moving 
tables?  Tit,  six  or  seven  of  you,  a  wooden  table 
without  brass  castors  ;  sit  round  it,  lay  j'our  hands 
flat  on  it,  not  touching  each  other,  and  in  half  an 
hour  or  so  perhaps  it  will  begin  to  turn  round  and 


2o6  Ecttere  of  ^^ocftcrag. 

rouiuL  It  is  the  most  wonderful  thing,  but  I  have 
tried  twice  in  vain  since  I  saw  it  and  did  it  at  Mr. 
Bancroft's.  I  have  not  been  into  fashionable  soci- 
ety yet,  -what  they  call  the  u]oper  ten  thousand  here, 
but  have  met  very  likeable  of  the  lower  sort.  On 
Sunday  I  went  into  the  country,  and  there  was  a 
great  rosy  jolly  family  of  sixteen  or  eighteen  peoj^le, 
round  a  great  tea-table ;  and  the  lady  of  the  house 
told  me  to  make  myself  at  home — remarking  my 
bashfulness,  you  know — and  said,  with  a  jolly  face, 
and  twinkling  of  her  little  eyes,  "  Lord  bless  you, 
we  know  you  all  to  pieces!  "and  there  was  sitting  by 
me  O !  such  a  i:)retty  girl,  the  very  picture  of  Ru- 
bens's  second  wife,  and  face  and  figure.  Most  of  theX 
ladies,  all  except  this  family,  are  as  lean  as  grey- 
hounds ;  they  dress  prodigiously  fine,  taking  for 
their  models  the  French  actresses,  I  think,  of  the 
Boulevard  theatres. 

Broadway  is  miles  upon  miles  long,  a  rush  of  life 
such  as  I  never  have  seen  ;  not  so  full  as  the  Strand, 
but  so  rapid.  The  houses  are  always  being  torn 
down  and  built  up  again,  the  railroad  cars  drive  slaj) 
into  the  midst  of  the  city.  There  arc  barricades 
and  scaffoldings  banging  everywhere.  I  have  not 
been  into  a  house  except  the  fat  country  one,  but 
something  new  is  being  done  to  it,  and  the  hammer- 
ings arc  clattering  in  the  passage,  or  a  wall,  or  stops 
are  down,  or  the  family  is  going  to  move.     Nobody 


£cffer0  of  ^^ocfterag.  20-] 

is  quiet  here,  no  more  am  I.  The  rush  and  rest- 
lessness pleases  me,  and  I  like,  for  a  little,  the  dash 
of  the  stream.  I  am  not  received  as  a  god,  which  \ 
like  too.  There  is  one  paper  "which  goes  on  every 
morning  saying  lam  a  snob,  and  I  don't  say  no.  Six 
jicople  were  reading  it  at  breakfast  this  morning, 
and  the  man  opposite  me  popped  it  under  the  tabic 
cloth.  But  the  other  papers  roar  with  approbation. 
"  Criez,  heucjlez  0!  Journaux "  They  don't  un- 
derstand French  though,  that  bit  of  Beranger  will 
hang  fire.  Do  you  remember  Jete  sur  cette  boule 
&c.  ?  Yes,  my  dear  sister  remembers.  God  Al- 
mighty bless  her,  and  all  she  loves. 

I  may  write  next  Saturday  to  Chesham  Place  ;  j'ou 
will  go  and  carry  my  love  to  those  ladies  won't  you  ? 
Here  comes  in  a  man  with  a  paper  I  hadn't  seen  ; 
I  must  cut  out  a  bit  just  as  the  actors  do,  but  then 
I  think  you  will  like  it,  and  that  is  why  I  do  it. 
There  was  a  very  I'ich  biography  about  me  in  one 
of  the  papers  the  other  day,  with  an  account  of  a 
servant,  maintained  in  the  splendour  of  his  menial 
decorations — Poor  old  John  whose  picture  is  in  Poi- 
(h')inii^.  And  I  have  filled  my  paper,  and  I  shake 
my  dear  lady's  hand  across  the  roaring  sea,  and  I 
know  that  you  will  be  glad  to  know  that  I  prosper 
and  that  I  am  well,  and  that  I  am  yours 

W.  M.  T. 


2o8  £etter0  of  ^^ocftemg. 

[  CUTTING   PROM   THE   NEW  YORK   EVENING  POST  ENCLOSED 
IN   THE   FOREGOING ] 

The  building  was  crowded  to  its  utmost  capacity 
with  the  celebrities  of  literature  and  fashion  iu  this 
metropolis,  all  of  whom,  we  believe,  left,  perfectly 
united  iu  the  opinion  that  they  uever  remembered 
to  have  spent  an  hour  more  delightfully  iu  their 
lives,  and  that  the  room  in  which  they  had  been  re- 
ceiving so  much  enjoyment,  was  very  badly  lighted. 
We  fear,  also,  that  it  was  the  impression  of  the  many 
who  were  disappointed  in  getting  tickets,  that  the 
room  was  not  spacious  enough  for  the  purpose  in 
which  it  has  been  aj)propriated. 

Every  one  who  saw  Mr.  Thackeray  last  evening 
for  the  first,  seemed  to  have  had  their  impressions 
of  his  appearance  and  manner  of  sjieech,  corrected. 
Few  expected  to  see  so  large  a  man  ;  he  is  gigantic, 
six  feet  four  at  least  ;  few  expected  to  see  so  old  a 
person  ;  his  hair  appears  to  have  kept  silvery  record 
over  fifty  years  ;  and  then  there  was  a  notion  in  the 
minds  of  many  tliat  there  must  be  something  dash- 
ing and  "  fast "  in  his  appearance,  whereas  his  cos- 
tume was  perfectly  plain  ;  the  expression  of  his  face 
grave  and  earnest ;  his  address  perfectly  unaffected, 
and  such  as  we  might  expect  to  meet  with,  in  a  well 
bred  man  somewhat  advanced  in  years.  His  elocu- 
tion, also,  surprised  those  who  had  derived  their  im- 


Eefiere  of  ^^ocftcrag.  20c) 

pressions  from  tlie  English  journals.  His  voice  is  a 
superb  tenor,  and  possesses  that  pathetic  tremble 
which  is  so  eflfective  in  what  is  called  emotive  elo- 
quence, while  his  delivery  was  as  well  suited  to  the 
communication  he  had  to  make  as  could  well  have 
been  imagined. 

His  enunciation  is  perfect.  Every  word  he  ut- 
tered might  have  been  heard  in  the  remotest  quai-- 
ters  of  the  room,  yet  he  scarcely  lifted  his  voice 
above  a  colloquial  tone.  The  most  striking  feature 
in  his  whole  manner  was  the  utter  absence  of  affec- 
tation of  any  kind.  He  did  not  permit  himself  to 
appear  conscious  that  he  was  an  object  of  peculiar 
interest  in  the  audience,  neither  was  he  guilty  of  the 
greater  error  of  not  appearing  to  care  whether  they 
were  interested  in  him  or  not.  In  other  words,  he 
inspired  his  audience  with  a  respect  for  him,  as  a 
man  proportioned  to  the  admiration,  which  his 
books  have  inspired  for  him  as  an  authoi-. 

Of  the  lecture  itself,  as  a  work  of  art,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  speak  too  strongly.  Though  written  with 
the  utmost  simplicity  and  apparent  inattention  to 
effects,  it  overflowed  with  every  characteristic  of  the 
author's  happiest  vein.  There  has  been  nothing 
written  about  Swift  so  clever,  and  if  we  except  Lord 
Orrery's  silly  letters,  we  suspect  we  might  add 
nothing  so  unjust. 

Though  suitable  credit  was  given  to  Swift's  tal- 
14 


210  Eetter0  of  ^^acfterai^. 

ents,  all  of  which  were  admirably  characterized,  yet 
when  he  came  to  speak  of  the  moral  side  of  the 
dean's  nature  he  saw  nothiuff  but  darkness. 


1853. 

Direct  Clarendon  Hotel  New  York. 

Philadelphia. 
31  to  33  January. 

My  dear  lady's  kind  sad  letter  gave  me  pleasure, 
melancholy  as  it  was.     ... 

At  j)reseut,  I  incline  to  come  to  England  in  June 
or  July  and  get  ready  a  new  set  of  lectures,  and 
bring  them  back  with  me.  That  second  course  will 
enable  me  to  provide  for  the  children  and  their 
mother  finally  and  satisfactorily,  and  my  mind  will 
be  easier  after  that,  and  I  can  sing  Nimc  Dimiltis 
without  faltering.  There  is  money-making  to  try 
at,  to  be  sure,  and  ambition, — I  mean  in  public 
life ;  perhaps  that  might  interest  a  man,  but  not 
novels,  nor  lectures,  nor  fun,  any  more.  I  don't 
seem  to  care  about  these  any  more,  or  for  praise,  or 
for  abuse,  or  for  reputation  of  that  kind.  That  lit- 
erary play  is  played  out,  and  the  puppets  going  to 
be  locked  up  for  good  and  all. 

Does  this  melancholy  come  from  the  circumstance 
that  I  have  been  out  to  dinner  and  supper  every 
night  this  week  ?  O !  I  am  tired  of  shaking  hands 
with  people,  and  acting  tlio  lion  business  night  after 


Eefter0  of  ^^ikra^.  211 

night.  Evei-ybocly  is  introduced  and  shakes  hands. 
I  know  thousands  of  Colonels,  professors,  editors, 
and  what  not,  and  walk  the  streets  guiltily,  knowing 
that  I  don't  know  'em,  and  trembling  lest  the  man 
O2">posite  to  me  is  one  of  my  friends  of  the  day 
before.  I  believe  I  am  popular,  except  at  Boston 
among  the  newspaper  men  who  fired  into  me,  but  a 
great  favorite  with  the  moiide  there  and  elsewhere. 
Here  in  Philadelphia  it  is  all  praise  and  kindness. 
Do  you  knov,'  there  are  500,000  people  in  Phila- 
delphia? I  daresay  you  had  no  idea  thereof,  and 
smile  at  the  idea  of  there  being  a  monde  here  and  at 
Boston  and  New  York.  Early  next  month  I  begin 
at  Washington  and  Baltimore,  then  D.  V.  to  New 
Orleans,  back  to  New  York  by  Mississippi  and  Ohio, 
if  the  steamers  don't  blow  up,  and  if  they  do,  you 
know  I  am  easy.  What  a  weary,  weary  letter  I  am 
writing  to  you.  .  .  .  Have  you  heard  that  I 
have  found  Beatrix  at  New  York  ?  I  have  basked 
in  her  bright  eyes,  but  Ah,  me  !  I  don't  care  for 
her,  and  shall  hear  of  her  marrying  a  New  York 
buck  with  a  feeling  of  perfect  pleasure.  She  is 
really  as  like  Beatrix,  as  that  fellow  William  and  I 
met  was  like  Costigan.  She  has  a  dear  woman  of  a 
mother  upwai'ds  of  fifty-five,  whom  I  like  the  best, 
I  think,  and  think  the  handsomest, — a  sweet  lady. 
What  a  comfort  those  dear  Elliots  are  to  me  ;  I  have 
had  but  one  little  letter  from  J.  E.  full  of  troubles 


212  Eeffere  of  ^^acitemg. 

too.  She  says  you  have  been  a  comfort  to  them  too. 
I  can't  live  without  the  tenderness  of  some  woman  ; 
and  expect  when  I  am  sixty  I  shall  be  marrying  a 
girl  of  eleven  or  twelve,  innocent,  barley-sugar-lov- 
ing, in  a  pinafore. 

They  came  and  interrupted  me  as  I  was  writ- 
ing this,  two  days  since  ;  and  I  have  been  in  public 
almost  ever  since.  The  lectures  are  enormously 
suivies  and  I  read  at  the  rate  of  a  pound  a  minute 
nearly.  The  curious  thing  is,  that  I  think  I  im- 
prove in  the  i-eading  ;  at  certain  passages  a  sort  of 
emotion  sjjrings  up,  I  begin  to  understand  how 
actors  feel  affected  over  and  over  again  at  the  same 
jiassages  of  the  play ; — they  are  affected  off  the 
stage  too,  I  hope  I  shan't  be. 

Crowe  is  my  immensest  comfort  ;  I  could  not  live 
witliout  someone  to  take  care  of  me,  and  he  is  the 
kindest  and  most  affectionate  henchman  ever  man 
had.  I  went  to  see  Pierce  Butler  yesterday,  Fanny's 
husband.  I  thought  she  would  like  me  to  see  the 
children  if  I  could,  and  I  asked  about  them  particu- 
larly, but  they  were  not  shown.  I  thought  of  good 
Adelaide  coming  to  sing  to  you  when  you  were  ill. 
I  may  like  everj'one  who  is  kind  to  you,  mayn't 
I  ?  .  .  .  What  for  has  Lady  Ashburton  never 
written  to  me  ?  I  am  writing  this  witli  a  new  gold 
pen  in  such  a  fine  gold  case. '  An  old  gentleman 
gave  it  to  me  yesterday,  a  white-headed  old  philos- 


feeffers  of  ^^odterag.  213 

oplicr  and  political  eoonomist.  There's  something 
simple  iu  the  way  these  kind  folks  regard  a  man  ; 
they  read  our  books  as  if  we  were  Fielding,  and  so 
forth.  The  other  night  some  men  were  talking  of 
Dickens  and  Bulwer  as  if  they  were  equal  to  Shake- 
speare, and  I  was  pleased  to  find  myself  pleased  at 
Jiearing  them  praised.  The  prettiest  girl  in  Phila- 
delphia, poor  soul,  has  read  Vanity  Fail-  twelve 
times.  I  paid  her  a  great  big  compliment  yester- 
day, about  her  good  looks  of  course,  and  she  turned 
round  delighted  to  her  friend  and  said,  "  Ai  most 
tulluf,"  that  is  something  like  the  pronunciation. 
]>eatrix  has  an  adorable  pronunciation,  and  uses 
little  words,  which  are  much  better  than  wit.  And 
what  do  you  think?  One  of  the  prettiest  girls  iu 
]^oston  id  to  be  put  under  my  charge  to  go  to  a 
marriage  at  Washington  next  week.  We  are  to 
travel  together  all  the  way  alone — only,  only,  I'm 
not  going.  Young  people  when  they  are  engaged 
here,  make  tours  alone  ;  fancy  what  the  British  ]\Irs. 
Grundy  would  say  at  such  an  idea  ! 

There  was  a  young  quakeress  at  the  lecture  last 
night,  listening  about  Fielding.  Lord  !  Lord,  how 
pretty  she  was  !  There  are  hundreds  of  such 
everywhere,  airy  looking  little  beings,  with  mag- 
nolia—no  not  magnolia,  what -is  that  white  flower 
you  make  bouquets  of,  Camilla  or  camelia — com- 
plexions, and  lasting  not  much  longer.    .    .    .    God 


^14  feeffers  of  t^cfterap. 

bless  you  and  your  cliilclron,  write  to  me  sometimes 
and  farewell 


[  TO  MISS  PERRY  ] 

Balti  MOKE,  —Washington. 

Feby.  7th.  to  14th.  '53. 

Although  I  have  written  a  many  letters  to  Ches- 
ham  Place,  not  one  has  gone  to  the  special  address 
of  my  dear  K.  E.  P.,  and  if  you  jjlease  I  will  begin 
one  now  for  half  an  hour  before  going  to  lecture  1. 
In  another  hour  that  dreary  business  of  "  In  speak- 
ing of  the  English  Humourous  writers  of  the  last, 
etc."  will  begin, — and  the  wonder  to  me  is  that  the 
speaker  once  in  the  desk  (to-day  it  is  to  be  a  right 
down  iDuli^it  in  a  Uuiversalist  Church  and  no  mis- 
take), gets  interested  in  the  work,  makes  the  points, 
thrills  with  emotion  and  indignation  at  the  right 
place,  and  has  a  little  sensation  whilst  the  work  is 
going  on  ;  but  I  can't  go  on  much  longer,  my  con- 
science revolts  at  the  quackery.  Now  I  have  seen 
three  great  cities,  Boston,  New  York,  PhiladeliDhia, 
I  think  I  like  tliem  all  mighty  well  they  seem  to 
me  not  so  civilized  as  our  London,  but  more  so 
than  Manchester  and  Liverpool.  At  Boston  is  very 
good  literate  comj)any  indeed  ;  it  is  like  Edinburgh 
for  that, — a  vast  amount  of  toryism  and  donnish- 
ness everywhere.  That  of  New  York  the  sirniilest 
and  least  pretentious  ;  it  suffices  that  a  man  should  . 


feeffere  of  ^^acfterag.  2/5 

keep  a  fine  bouse,  give  parties,  and  have  a  daughter, 
to  get  all  the  world  to  him.  And  what  struck  me, 
that  whereas  on  my  first  arrival,  I  was  annoyed  at 
the  uncommon  splendatiousness 

— here  the  letter  was  interrupted  on  Monday  at 
Baltimore,  and  is  now  taken  up  again  on  Thursday 
at  Washington — never  mind  what  sti'uck  me,  it  was 
only  that  after  a  while  you  get  accustomed  to  the 
splendor  of  the  dresses  and  think  them  right  and 
proper.  Use  makes  everything  so  ;  who  knows  ? 
you  will  be  coming  out  in  Empire  ruffs  and  high 
w'aists  by  the  time  I  come  home.  I  have  not  been 
able  to  write  a  word  since  I  came  here  on  Tuesday  ; 
my  time  has  been  spent  in  seeing  and  calling  upon 
lions.  Our  minister  Mr.  Crampton  is  very  jolly  and 
good-natured.  Yesterday  he  had  a  dinner  at  five 
for  all  the  legation,  and  the}^  all  came  very  much 
T)ored  to  my  lecture.  To-day  I  dined  with  Mr. 
Everett ;  with  the  President  it  may  be  next  week. 
The  place  has  a  Wiesbaden  air — there  are  politics 
and  gaieties  straggling  all  over  it.  More  interrup- 
tion and  this  one  has  lasted  three  days.  Book  in- 
deed !  How  is  one  to  write  a  book  when  it  is  next 
to  impossible  to  get  a  c|uiet  half  hour?  Since  I 
wrote  has  come  a  short  kind  letter  from  dear  old 
Kinglake,  who  continues  to  give  bad  accounts  from 
Chesham  Place.  God  bless  all  there,  say  I.  I  wish 
I  was  by  to  be  with  my  dear  friends  in  grief,  I  know 


21 6  £efter6  of  t^<*cSem^ 

they  know  how  to  sympatliize  (althougli  m'g  are 
spoiled  by  the  world,  Ave  have  no  hearts  jo\x  know 
&c.  &c.  ;  but  then  it  may  ha^jpen  that  the  high 
flown  romantic  jjeople  are  wrong,  and  that  we  love 
our  friends  as  well  as  they  do).  I  don't  pity  any- 
body who  leaves  the  world,  not  even  a  fair  young 
girl  in  her  prime  ;  I  pity  those  remaining.  On  her 
journey,  if  it  pleases  God  to  send  her,  depend  on  it 
there's  no  cause  for  grief,  that's  but  an  earthly  con- 
dition. Out  of  our  stormy  life,  and  brought  nearer 
the  Divine  light  and  warmth,  there  must  be  a  serene 
climate.  Can't  you  fancy  sailing  into  the  calm  ? 
"Would  you  care  about  going  on  the  voyage,  only 
for  the  dear  souls  left  on  the  other  shore  ?  but  we 
shan't  be  parted  from  them  no  doubt  though  they 
are  from  us.  xVdd  a  little  more  intelligence  to  that 
which  we  possess  even  as  we  are,  and  why  shouldn't 
we  be  with  our  friends  though  ever  so  far  off  ?  . 
.  Why  presently,  the  body  removed,  shouldn't  wo 
l>ersonally  be  anywhere  at  will — j^roperties  of  Crea- 
tion, like  the  electric  something  (spark  is  it  ?)  that 
thrills  all  round  the  globe  simultaneously?  and  if 
round  the  globe  why  not  Ubcrall  ?  and  the  body 
being  removed  or  else  where  disposed  of  and  de- 
veloped, sorrow  and  its  opposite,  crime  and  the  re- 
verse, ease  and  disease,  desire  and  dislike  &c.  go 
along  with  the  body — a  lucid  Intelligence  remains, 
a  Perception  ubiquitous.      Monduy.      I  was  inter- 


£cffer0  of  ^t^ocfierap.  '^n 

rujjted  a  dozen  times  yesterday  in  tlie  course  of 
these  profitless  Schwarmereien. — There's  no  rest 
here  for  pilgrims  like  me.  Have  I  told  you  on  the 
other  side  that  I'm  doing  a  good  business  at  Balti- 
more and  a  small  select  one  here?  the  big-wigs  all 
come  and  are  pleased  ;  all  the  legations  and  old 
Scott  the  unsuccessful  candidate  for  the  Presidency 
&ic.  ?  It  is  Avell  to  have  come.  I  shall  go  hence  to 
Richmond  and  Charleston  and  then  who  knows 
whither  ?  not  to  New  Orleans,  I  think  the  distance 
is  too  great.  I  can't  go  a  thousand  miles  fishing  for 
half  as  many  pounds.  Why  not  come  back  and  see 
all  the  dear  faces  at  home  ?  I  try  and  think  of 
something  to  say  about  this  country  ;  all  I  have  re- 
marked I  could  put  down  in  two  pages.  "Where's 
the  eager  observation  and  ready  pencil  of  five  years 
ago  ?  I  have  not  made  a  single  sketch.  The  world 
passes  before  me  and  I  don't  care — Is  it  a  Aveaiy 
heart  or  is  it  a  great  cold  I  have  got  in  my  nose 
which  stupefies  me  utterly  ?  I  won't  inflict  any 
more  megrims  upon  you, 

from  your  affectionate  friend  and 
brother 

W.  M.  T. 


21 8  feeffere  cf  ^^ocftera^. 


[TO  MRS.  ELLIOT   AND  HER  SISTER  MISS  PERRY] 

March  ord.  1853. 
Richmond,  Virginia. 
Address  tlie 

Clarendon — New  York. 

FIIAGMENT. 

I  am  getting  so  sick  and  ashamed  of  the  con- 
founded old  lectures  that  I  wonder  I  have  the  cour- 
age to  go  on  delivering  them.  I  shan't  read  a 
single  review  of  them  when  they  are  published ; 
anything  savage  said  about  them  will  serve  them 
right.  They  are  popular  enough  here.  The  two 
presidents  at  Washington  came  to  the  last,  and  in 
this  pretty  little  town  the  little  Atheneum  Hall  was 
crowded  so  much  that  its  a  pity  I  had  not  hired  a 
room  twice  as  big ;  but  £2500  is  all  I  shall  make 
out  of  them.  "Well  that  is  £200  a  year  in  this  coun- 
try and  an  immense  comfort  for  the  chicks. — Crowo 
has  just  come  out  from  what  might  have  been  and 
may  be  yet  a  dreadful  scrape.  He  went  into  a  slave 
market  and  began  sketching  ;  and  the  people  ru.shed 
on  him  savagely  and  obliged  him  to  quit.  Fancy 
such  a  piece  of  imprudence.  It  may  fall  upon  his 
chief,  who  knows,  and  cut  short  his  popularity. 

The  negroes  don't  shock  me,  or  excite  my  com- 
passionate feelings  at  all ;  thoy  are  so  grotesque  and 
happy  that  I  can't  cry  over  them.     Tlie  little  black 


feetfere  of  ^^ocfiera)?.  2/9 

imps  arc  trotting  and  grinning  about  the  streets, 
women,  workmen,  waiters,  all  well  fed  and  happy. 
The  place  the  merriest  little  place  and  the  most 
l^icturesque  I  have  seen  in  America,  and  on  Satur- 
day I  go  to  Charlestown — shall  I  go  thence  to  Ha- 
vannah  ?  who  knows.  I  should  like  to  give  ni}'- 
self  a  week's  holiday,  without  my  deind  lecture  box. 
Shake  every  one  by  the  hand  that  asks  about  me. 

I  am  yours  always — O  !  you  kind  friends 

W.  M.  T. 

[TO  MISS  PERRY] 

Savannau,  Georgia, — [1855] 

Feast  of  St.  Valentine. 

This  welcome  day  brought  me  a  nice  long  letter 
from  K.  E.  P.,  and  she  must  know  that  I  write  from 
the  most  comfortable  quarters  I  have  ever  had  in 
the  United  States.  In  a  tranquil  old  city,  wide- 
streeted,  tree-planted,  with  a  few  cows  and  carriages 
toiling  through  the  sandy  road,  a  few  happy  negroes 
sauntering  here  and  there,  a  red  river  with  a  tran- 
quil little  fleet  of  merchant-men  taking  in  cargo,  and 
tranquil  ware-houses  barricaded  with  packs  of  cotton, 
— no  row,  no  tearing  northern  bustle,  no  ceaseless 
hotel  racket,  no  crowds  drinking  at  the  bar, — a  snug 
little  languid  audience  of  three  or  four  hundred  peo- 
ple, far  too  lazy  to  laugh  or  applaud  ;  a  famous  good 
dinner,  breakfast  etc,  and  leisure  all  the  morning  to 


220  fecfferB  of  ;J:^cicfterat. 

think  and  (To  and  sloop  and  read  as  I  like.  Tlie  only 
place  I  say  in  the  States  where  I  can  get  those  com- 
forts— all  free  gratis — is  in  the  house  of  my  friend 
Andrew  Low  of  the  great  house  of  A.  Low  and  Co., 
Cotton  Dealers,  brokers,  Merchants — what's  the 
word  ?  Last  time  I  was  here  he  was  a  widower  with 
two  daughters  in  England,  about  whom — and  other 
two  daughters — there  was  endless  talk  between  us. 
Now  there  is  a  pretty  wife  added  to  the  establish- 
ment, and  a  little  daughter  number  three  crowing 
in  the  adjoining  nursery.  They  are  tremeudou3 
men  these  cotton  merchants. 

When  I  had  finished  at  Charleston  I  went  off  to 
a  qvieer  little  rustic  city  called  Augusta — a  great 
bi'oad  street  2  miles  long — old  quaint  looking  shoijs 
— houses  with  galleries — ware-houses — trees — cows 
and  negi'oes  strolling  about  the  side  walks — j^lank 
roads — a  happy  dirty  tranquility  generally  preva- 
lent. It  lies  130  miles  from  Charleston.  You  take 
8i  hours  to  get  there  by  the  railway,  about  same 
time  and  distance  to  come  here,  over  endless  plains 
of  swampy  pine-lands — a  village  or  two  here  and 
there  in  a  clearing.  I  brought  away  a  snug  little 
jiurse  from  snug  little  Augusta,  though  I  had  a  rival 
— A  Wild  man,  lecturing  in  the  very  same  hall  :  I 
tell  you  it  is  not  a  dignified  metier,  that  which  I 
pursue. 

What  is  this  about  the  Saturday  Review?     After 


£etter6  of  ^^ftcrag.  22/ 

giving  Vernon  Harcourt  2/G  to  send  me  the  first  5 
numbers,  and  only  getting  No.  1,  it  is  too  bad  they 
should  assault  me — and  for  what?  My  lecture  is 
rather  extra  loyal  whenever  the  Queen  is  mentioned, 
• — and  the  most  aj)plauded  passage  in  them  I  shall 
have  the  honour  of  delivering  to-night  in  the  Lecture 
on  George  II,  where  the  speaker  says  "In  laughing 
at  these  old-world  follies  and  ceremonies  shall  we 
not  acknowledge  the  change  of  to-day  ?  As  the  mis- 
tress of  St.  James  passes  me  now  I  salute  the  sov- 
ereign, wise,  moderate,  exemplary  of  life,  the  good 
mother,  the  good  wife,  the  accomplished  Lady,  the 
enlightened  friend  of  Art,  the  tender  sympathizer  in 
her  people's  glories  and  sorrows." 

I  can't  say  more,  can  I  ?  and  as  for  George  III,  I 
leave  off  just  with  the  people  on  the  crying  point. 
And  I  never  for  one  minute  should  think  that  my 
brave  old  Venables  would  hit  me  ;  or  if  he  did  that 
he  hadn't  good  cause  for  it. 

Forster's  classification  delights  me.  It's  right 
that  men  of  such  ability'  and  merit  should  get  gov- 
ernment recognition  and  honourable  public  employ. 
It  is  a  compliment  to  all  of  us  when  one  receives 
such  promotion.  As  for  me  I  have  pestered  you 
with  my  account  of  dollars  and  cents,  and  it  is  quite 
clear  that  Kings  or  Laws  cannot  do  anything  so  well 
for  me  as  these  jaws  and  this  pen — please  God  they 
are  allowed  to  wag  a  little  longer.     I  wish  I  did  not 


222  Eeftere  of  ^^ocftcrag. 

read  about  your  illness  and  weakness  in  that  letter. 
Ah,  me  !  many  and  many  a  time  every  day  do  I 
think  of  you  all. 

Enter  a  servant  (black)  with  the  card  of  Bishop 
EUiott 

If  you  are  taking  a  drive  some  day,  do  go  and 
pay  a  visit  of  charity  to  my  good  cook  and  house- 
keeper Gray,  and  say  you  have  heard  of  me,  and 
that  I  am  very  well  and  making  plenty  of  money 
and  that  Charles  is  well  and  is  the  greatest  comfort 
to  me.  It  will  comfort  the  poor  woman  all  alone 
in  poor  3G  yonder.  What  charming  letters  Annie 
writes  me  with  exquisite  pretty  turns  now  and 
then.  St.  Valentine  brought  me  a  deliglitful  letter 
from  her  too,  and  from  the  dear  old  mother  ;  and 
whether  it's  the  comfort  of  this  house,  or  the  pleas- 
ure of  having  an  hour's  chat  with  you,  or  the  sweet 
clean  bed  I  had  last  night  and  undisturbed  rest 
and  good  breakfast, — altogether  I  think  I  have  no 
right  to  grumble  at  my  lot  and  am  very  decently 
happy,  don't  you  ? 

IGth  Feb.  My  course  is  for  Macon,  Montgomery 
and  New  Orleans  ;  no  Havannah,  the  dollars  forbid. 
From  N.  O.  I  shall  go  up  the  Mississippi,  D.  V.,  to  St. 
Louis  and  Cincinnati,  and  yc  who  write  will  address 
care  of  J.  G.  King's  Sous,  New  York,  won't  you  ? 

Yours  afft. 

W.  I\I.  T. 


feeftere  of  ^^ocitemg.  22^ 


AN  IMAOTNARY  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK.  • 

September  5,  1848. 

Dear  Madam  : — 

It  seems  to  me  a  long  time  since  I  bad  the  honour 
of  seeing  you.  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  some  account 
of  your  health.  "We  made  a  beautiful  voyage  of 
13|-  days,  and  reached  this  fine  city  yesterday.  The 
entrance  of  the  bay  is  beautiful  ;  magnificent  woods 
of  the  Susquehannah  stretch  down  to  the  shore,  and 
from  Hoboken  liglithouse  to  Vancouver's  Island,  the 
bay  presents  one  brilliant  blaze  of  natural  and  com- 
mercial loveliness.  Hearing  that  Titmarsh  was  on 
board  the  steamer,  the  Lord  Mayor  and  Aldermen 
of  New  York  came  down  to  receive  us,  and  the  bat- 
teries on  Long  Island  fired  a  salute.  General  Jack- 
son called  at  my  hotel,  (the  Astor  house)  I  found  him 
a  kind  old  man,  though  he  has  a  wooden  leg  and 
takes  a  great  deal  of  snuflf.  Broadway  has  certain- 
ly disappointed  me — it  is  nothing  to  be  compared 
to  our  own  dear  Holborn  Hill.     But  the  beautiful 


'  This  letter,  the  only  one  of  tho.se  in  the  collection  which  ha.s  been  made 
public  before,  was  printed  by  ijerinission  in  the  Orphan  of  Pimlico,  a.  little 
collection  of  Thackeray's  miscellcinea  and  drawings  published  in  1876.  As 
it  will  be  new  to  most  readers,  however,  it  has  been  thought  best  to  retain 
it;  and  it  is  placed  here  siniiily  to  be  in  company  wiih  the  real  American 
letters.  The  drawing  of  the  Nepro,  hi>wcver,  which  accompanied  it  also  in 
the  Orp/ian  of  Pimlico,  seems  to  have  been  an  actual  sketch  during  one  of 
the  American  visits. 


224  £effcr6  of  ^^ocfterag. 

range  of  the  Allegheney  mountains,  which  I  see 
from  my  windows,  and  the  roar  of  the  Niagara  Cat- 
aract, which  empties  itself  out  of  the  Mississippi 
into  the  Oregon  territory,  have  an  effect,  which  your 
fine  ej'e  for  the  picturesque,  and  keen  sense  of  the 
beautiful  and  the  natural  would  I  am  sure  lead 
you  to  appreciate. 

The  oysters  here  are  much  larger  than  ours,  and 
the  canvass  backed  ducks,  are  i-eckoned,  and  indeed 
are,  a  delicacy.  The  house  where  "Washington  was 
born  is  still  shown,  but  the  General  I  am  informed, 
is  dead,  much  regretted.  The  clergy  here  is  both 
numerous  and  respected,  and  the  Archbishop  of 
New  York  is  a  most  venerable  and  delightful  prel- 
ate ;  whose  sermons  are  however  a  little  long.  The 
ladies  are  without  exception  the — But  here  the  first 
gong  sounds  for  dinner,  and  the  black  slave  who 
waits  on  me,  comes  up  and  says,  "Massa,  hab  only 
five  miiuites  for  dinnali."  "Make  haste,  git  no 
pumpkin  pie  else,"  so  unwillingly  I  am  obliged  to 
break  off  my  note  and  to  subscribe  myself, 
My  dear  Madame 

Your  very  faithful  servt., 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


fecffere  of  Z^ac^cmi^.  22^ 


[ 1854  ] 

I  hope  you  "svill  not  object  to  hear  that  I  am  quite 
Avell  this  morning.  I  should  have  liked  to  shake 
hands  with  H.  before  his  dejDarture,  but  I  was  busy 
writing  at  the  hour  when  he  said  he  was  going,  and 
fell  sound  asleep  here  last  night,  after  a  very  mod- 
est dinner,  not  waking  till  near  midnight,  when  it 
was  too  late  to  set  off  to  the  Paddington  Station. 

What  do  you  think  I  have  done  to-day  ?  I  have 
sent  in  my  resignation  to  Punch.  There  appears  in 
next  Punch  an  article,  so  wicked,  I  think,  by  poor 

that  upon  my  word  I  don't  think  I  ought  to 

pull  any  longer  in  the  same  boat  with  such  a  savage 
little  Robespierre.  The  appearance  of  this  incendi- 
ary article  put  me  in  such  a  rage,  that  I  could  only 
cool  myself  by  a  ride  in  the  Park  ;  and  I  should 
very  likely  have  reported  myself  in  Portman  Street, 
but  I  remembered  how  you  had  Miss  Prince  to 
Ivincheon,  and  how  I  should  be  de  trop.  Now  I  am 
going  to  work  the  rest  of  the  middle  of  the  day  un- 
til dinner  time,  when  I  go  to  see  Le  Prophlte  again  ; 
but  it  would  please  me  very  much,  if  you  please,  to 
hear  that  you  were  pretty  well.  ' 

Always  faithfully  de  Madame  le  serviteur  devoue 

W.  M.  T. 
15 


226  fcetfere  cf  ^^cvciterag. 


The  letters  which  have  been  chosen  for  publi- 
cation end  here.  During  the  many  years  that 
they  have  remained  in  my  possession  no  one  has 
read  them  out  of  my  own  family,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Mr.  Thackeray's  beloved  daughter,  Mrs. 
Ritchie  ;  until  these  last  few  months,  when  two 
or  three  of  these  letters  were  read  by  the  friends 
whom  I  consulted  as  to  their  suitability  for  pub- 
lication. As  my  own  life  draws  to  a  close,  I  still 
look  back  to  the  confidence  and  affection  with 
which  their  writer  honoured  me,  with  gratitude 
too  deep  for  words.  The  record  of  these  few 
years  of  his  life,  given  by  his  own  hand  in  every 
varied  mood,  will  best  describe  him  as  he  was 
and  as  I  so  well  remember  him  ;  but  my  friend 
Kate  Perry's  charming  recollections  cannot  fail 
to  be  read  with  general  interest. 

Jane  Octavia  Bkookfield. 


fecffere  of  ^Ijacftcrai^.  22j 

^.*^  In  addition  to  the  passages  quoted  from 
Miss  Perry,  I  give  two  sliglit  anecdotes  of  my 
own  early  acquaintance  : 

When,  soon  after  our  marriage,  Mr.  Brookfield 
introduced  his  early  college  friend,  Mr.  Thackeray, 
to  me,  he  brought  him  one  day  unexpectedly  to  dine 
with  us.  There  was,  fortunately,  a  good  plain  din- 
ner, but  I  was  young  and  shy  enough  to  feel  em- 
barrassed because  we  had  no  sweets,  and  I  privately 
sent  my  maid  to  the  nearest  confectioner's  to  buy  a 
dish  of  tartlets,  which  I  thought  would  give  a  finish 
to  our  simple  meal.  When  they  were  placed  before 
me,  I  timidly  offered  our  guest  a  small  one,  saying, 
' Will  you  have  a  tartlet,  Mr.  Thackeray ? '  'I  will, 
but  I'll  have  a  two-penny  one,  if  you  please,'  he  an- 
swered, so  beamingly,  that  we  all  laughed,  and  my 
shyness  disappeared. 

On  another  occasion,  also  very  early  in  my  friend- 
shii)  with  Mr.  Thackeray,  he  was  at  our  house  one 
evening  with  a  few  other  intimate  friends,  when  the 
conversation  turned  on  court  circulars,  and  their 
sameness  day  after  day.  A  few  samples  were  given  : 
'So«-apd-so  had  the  honor  of  joining  Her  Majesty's 
dinner  party  with  other  lofty  and  imposing  person- 
ages,' invariably  ending  with  Dr.  Pretorius.     'By 


228  fcetfere  of  t^ocfiemg. 

the  way,  who  is  Dr.  Pretorius  ? '  somebody  asked. 
A  slight  pause  ensued,  when  a  voice  began  solemnly 
singing  the  National  Anthem,  ending  each  verse 
with, 

"  God  save  our  gracious  Queen, 
Send  her  victorious,  happy  and  glorious, 
Dr.  Pretorius — God  save  the  Queen." 

This  was  Mr.  Thackeray,  who  had  been  sitting- 
perfectly  silent  and  rather  apart  from  those  who 
were  talking,  and  had  not  appeared  to  notice  what 
was  said. 


fetters  of  ^^cfterag.  22g 


SOME  EXTRACTS  FEOM  MISS  KATE  PERRY'S 
RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MR.  THACKERAY. 

My  acquaintance  "o'ith  Mr.  Thackeray  began  at 
Brighton,  where  I  was  staying  with  my  eldest 
brother,  WilHam  Perry.  In  most  cases  there  is  a 
prelude  to  friendship — at  first  it  is  a  delicate  plant, 
with  barely  any  root,  gradually  throwing  out  tender 
green  leaves  and  buds,  and  then  full-blown  flowers 
— the  root  in  the  meanwhile  taking  firm  hold  of  the 
earth — and  cruel  is  the  frost  or  cutting  wind  which 
destroys  it.  But  Mr.  Thackeray  and  I  went  through 
no  gradations  of  growth  in  our  fi'iendship  ;  it  was 
more  like  Jack's  bean-stalk  in  a  pantomime,  which 
rushed  up  sky-high  without  culture,  and,  thank 
God,  so  remained  till  his  most  sad  and  sudden  end. 

In  the  earliest  days  of  our  friendship  he  brought 
his  morning  work  to  read  to  me  in  the  evening  ; 
he  had  just  commenced  "Vanity  Fair,"  and  was  liv- 
ing at  the  Old  Ship  Inn,  where  he  wrote  some  of 
the  first  numbers.  He  often  then  said  to  me :  "  I 
wonder  whether  this  will  take,  the  publishers  accept 
it,  and  the  world  read  it?"  I  remember  answering 
him  that  I  had  no  reliance  upon  my  own  critical 
powers  in  literature  ;  but  that  I  had  written  to  my 
sister,   Mrs.    Frederick    FUiot,   and    said,    "  I   have 


^30  fecttere  of  ^^acfiera^. 

made  a  great  frieiKlsliip  with  one  of  the  principal 
contributors  of  Punch — Mr.  Thackeray  ;  he  is  now 
writing  a  novel,  but  cannot  hit  upon  a  name  for  it. 
I  may  be  wrong,  but  it  seems  to  me  the  cleverest 
thing  I  ever  read.  The  first  time  he  dined  with 
us  I  was  fearfully  alarmed  at  him.  The  next  day 
we  walked  in  Chichester  Park,  when  he  told  all 
about  his  little  girls,  and  of  his  great  friendshij) 
with  the  Brookfields,  and  I  told  him  about  you  and 
Chesham  Place."  When  he  heard  this,  and  my 
opinion  of  his  novel,  he  burst  out  laughing,  and 
said  :  "Ah  !  Mademoiselle  (as  he  always  called  me), 
it  is  71  ot  small  beer  ;  but  I  do  not  know  whether 
it  will  be  palatable  to  the  London  folks."  He  told 
me,  some  time  afterward,  that,  after  ransacking  his 
brain  for  a  name  for  his  novel,  it  came  upon  him 
unawares,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  as  if  a  voice 
had  whispered,  "Vanity  Fair."  He  said,  "I  jumped 
out  of  bed,  and  ran  three  times  round  my  room, 
uttering  as  I  went,  '  Vanity  Fair,  Vanity  Fair,  Van- 
ity Fair.' " 

Afterward  we  frequently  met  at  the  Miss  Berrys', 
where  night  after  night  were  assembled  all  the  wit 
and  beauty  of  that  time.  There  was  such  a  charm 
about  these  gatherings  of  friends,  that  hereafter  we 
may  say  :  "  There  is  no  salon  now  to  compai-e  to 
that  of  the  Miss  Berrys',  iu  Curzou   Street."     My 


betters  cf  ^^ocHcrai?.  2^1 

Rister  and  I,  with  our  great  admiration  and  friend- 
sbiiD  for  Mr.  Thackeray,  used  to  think  that  the  Miss 
Berrys  at  first  did  not  thoroughly  appreciate  or 
understand  him  ;  but  one  evening,  when  he  had 
left  early,  they  said  tliey  had  perceived,  for  the  first 
time,  "  what  a  very  remarkable  man  he  was."  He  be- 
came a  constant  and  most  welcome  visitor  at  their 
house  ;  they  read  his  works  with  delight,  and,  when- 
ever they  were  making  uj)  a  pleasant  dinner,  used 
to  say  :  ""We  viust  have  Thackeray."  It  was  at  one 
of  these  dinners  that  Miss  Berry  astonished  us  all 
by  saying  she  "  had  never  read  Jane  Austen's  novels, 
until  lately  someone  had  lent  them  to  her.  But 
she  could  not  get  on  with  them  ;  they  were  totally 
uninteresting  to  her — long-drawn-out  details  of  very 
ordinary  people,"  and  she  found  the  books  so  te- 
dious that  she  could  not  understand  their  having  ob- 
tained such  a  celebrity  as  they  had  done.  "Thack- 
eray and  Balzac,"  she  added  (Thackeray  being  pres- 
ent), "write  with  gi*eat  minuteness,  but  do  so  with 
a  brilliant  pen."  Thackeray  made  two  bows  of  grat- 
itude (one,  pointing  to  the  ground,  for  Balzac). 
Those  who  love  to  pore  over  old  memoirs  will  find 
Miss  Berry's  name  associated  with  Horace  Wal- 
pole's  ;  but  when  they  met  he  was  very  old,  and  she 
was  very  young.  She  accepted  his  admiration  with 
pride  and  gratitude,  but  had  no  aspiration  to  be  the 
mistress  of  Strawberry  Hill. 


232  £cffer0  of  ^^ocfterag. 

]Miss  Agues  Berry  adored  her  elder  sister  ;  she 
luid  considerable  clearness  and  acuteness  of  per- 
ception, and  Thackeray  always  maintained  she  was 
the  more  naturally  gifted  of  the  two  sisters.  In  her 
youth  she  was  a  pretty,  charming  girl,  with  whom 
Gastavus  Adolphus  danced  at  one  of  his  court  balls, 
and  was  admired  and  envied  by  the  other  ladies 
present.  These  two  remarka])le  women  lived  to- 
gether for  nearly  ninety  years. 

Thackeray's  love  of  children  was  one  of  the  strong- 
(;st  feelings  of  his  heart.  In  a  little  poem,  "  The 
Golden  Pen,"  published  in  his  "  Miscellanies," 
which  is,  perha^DS,  the  truest  portrait  of  him  which 
has  ever  appeared,  he  writes  : 

"  There's  something,  even  in  his  bitterest  mood. 
That  melts  him  at  the  sight  of  infanthood  ; 
Thank  God  that  he  can  love  the  j)ure  and  good." 

This  sympathy  with  the  little  ones  was  not  only 
proved  by  his  immense  devotion  to  his  own  most 
gifted  children,  but  extended  to  the  little  "  gutter 
child,"  as  the  trim  board-school  girl  of  to-day  was 
called  then.  For  this  waif  of  society  he  felt  the 
tenderest  pity  and  interest.  He  used  often  to  visit 
a  school  where  my  dear  sister  had  collected  nearly 
three  hundred  of  these  neglected  children,  feeding, 
teaching,  and  clothing  them,  and,  Avith  the  help  of 


Offers  of  t^ac^cxai^.  2jj 

other  kind  souls,  i^rcpriring  tliera  in  some  degree  to 
fight  the  battle  of  life,  in  which  there  are  many 
crosses— but  few  Victoria  ones.  Turning  his  steps 
one  day  to  this  large,  rough-looking  school-room, 
he  entered  it  just  as  these  little  Arabs  Avcre  com- 
mencing, with  more  heartiness  than  melody,  Faber's 
beautiful  hymn  : 

"O  Paradise!  O  Paradise  ! 

Who  doth  not  crave  for  rest  ? 
Who  would  not  seek  the  happy  land, 
Where  they  that  love  are  blest  ?  " 

He  turned  to  the  lady  superintending  them,  and 
said,  "  I  cannot  stand  this  any  longer — m}'  specta- 
cles are  getting  very  dim." 

One  day,  some  few  years  later,  I  had  been  engaged 
in  summing  up  the  monthly  expenses  of  the  same 
school,  and  had  left  open  on  my  writing-table,  the 
much  scored-over  Soup  Kitchen  book.  Mr.  Thack- 
eray was  shown  into  the  room,  and  was  for  some 
minutes  alone  before  I  joined  him.  After  he  left,  I 
resumed  my  labors,  and  found  on  the  first  page  of 
the  book  a  beautifully  executed  pen-and-ink  sketch  of 
little  children  crowding  round  the  school-mistress, 
who  was  ladling  out,  into  mugs  of  various  sizes  and 
shapes,  the  daily  meal  of  soup,  above  which  was 
written,  "  Suffer  little  children,  and  forbid  them 
not." 


^34  feeffere  of  ^^^ftera^. 

Another  day,  I  found  a  sovereign  under  a  paper 
containing  the  names  of  some  friends  of  the  school 
who  had  joined  in  a  subscription  to  give  the  children 
a  daj^'s  holiday  in  the  country.  I  said  to  my  servant, 
"Mr.  Thackeray  has  been  here,"  and  found  from  him 
this  was  the  case.  I  kncAv  my  instinct  was  right, 
that  it  was  his  hand  which  had  placed  the  money 
there.  His  charity  was  very  wide,  in  the  fullest  sense 
of  the  word.  He  has  been  known  to  discover,  in 
some  remote  corner,  the  hapless  artist  or  dramatist 
who  in  his  palmy  days  had  not  thought  much  of  that 
night — old  age — "when  no  more  work  can  be  done." 
Thackeray  would  mount  the  many  steps  leading  to 
the  desolate  chamber — administer  some  little  rebuke 
on  the  thoughtlessness  of  not  laying  by  some  of  the 
easily  gained  gold  of  youth  or  manhood,  and  slijiping, 
as  in  one  instance,  into  an  old  blotting-book,  a  £100 
note,  would  hurry  away. 

"I  never  saw  him  do  it,"  said  poor  old  P . 

"I  was  very  angry  because  he  said  I  had  been  a 
reckless  old  goose — and  then  a  £100  falls  out  of  my 
Avriting-book.     God  bless  him  !  " 

These  good  deeds  would  never  have  come  to  light 
but  for  the  gratitude  of  those  who,  though  they  had 
the  gentle  rebuke,  received  also  the  more  than  liberal 
help,  I  know  he  has  been  accused  of  extreme  sen- 
sitiveness to  blame,  either  aljout  himself  or  his  writ- 


feettere  of  ^^ocftcrag.  2^5 

ings,  but  the  following  story  proves  that  he  could 
forgive  with  magnaniniit}'  and  grace  when  roughly 
and  severely  handled.  This  once  occurred  at  my 
sister's  dinner-table.  Thackeray,  who  was  almost  a 
daily  visitor  at  her  house,  for  some  time  took  it  into 
his  head,  to  be  announced  by  the  name  of  the  most 
noted  criminal  of  the  day.  Our  butler  did  this  with 
the  greatest  gravity. 

On  this  occasion  Thackeray  had  been  asked  to 
join  some  friends  at  dinner,  but  not  arriving  at  the 
prescribed  hour,  the  guests  sat  down  without  him. 

Among  them  was  Mr.  H ,  the  author  of  some  of 

the  most  charming  books  of  the  day. 

The  conversation  being  more  literary  than  other- 
wise, Thackeray  (then  at  the  very  height  of  his  fame) 
came  under  discussion,  and,  some  of  his  greatest 
friends  and  atbnirers  being  present,  he  was  spoken 

of  with  unqualified  admii-ation.     Mr.  H was  the\ 

exception,  and  dissented  from  us,  in  very  unmeasur- 
ed terms,  in  our  estimate  of  Thackeray's  character. 
Judging,  he  said,  "  from  the  tenor  of  his  books,  he 
could  not  believe  how  one  who  could  dwell,  as  he 
did,  on  the  weakness  and  absurdities  and  shortcom- 
ings of  his  fellow-creatures,  could  possess  any  kind 
or  generous  sympathies  toward  the  human  race." 
He  concluded  his  severe  judgment  by  saying  that, 
"He  had  never  met  him,  and  hoped  he  never  should 
do  so." 


236  fcetfers  of  ^^ocfierai?. 

We  were  nil  so  occupied  by  this  fiery  debate  that 
we  did  not  observe  that,  under  the  sobriquet  of  some 
jail-bird  of  the  day,  Thackeray  had  slipped  into  his 
chair,  and  heard  much  that  was  said,  including  the 

severe   peroration.     A  gentle   tap   on  Mr.  H 's 

shouldei',  and,  in  his  pleasant,  low  voice,  Thackeray 
said,  "I,  on  the  contrary,  have  always  longed  for  the 
occasion  when  I  could  exj^ress,  personally,  to   Mr. 

H ,  the  great  admiration  I  have  always  felt  for 

hiin,  as  an  author  and  a  man."  It  is  pleasant  to  think 
they  became  fast  friends  thereafter. 

I  find  it  difficult  to  check  my  pen  from  being  gar- 
rulous as  I  remember  the  many  instances  of  the  kind- 
ness and  generosity  of  his  nature,  though,  at  the 
same  time,  I  feel  how  inadequate  it  is  to  do  justice 
to  all  his  noble  and  delightful  qualities.  His  wit 
and  humor  and  playfulness  were  most  observable 
where  he  was  happiest  and  most  at  case, — with  his 
beloved  daughters,  or  with  his  dear  friends  the 
Brookfieltls,  who  were  the  most  intimate  and  valued 
of  those  he  made  in  middle  life.  I  am  proud  to  say, 
also,  that  he  was  aware  of  the  admiration  in  which 
he  was  held  by  every  member  of  my  sister's  home, 
wliore  his  ever  ready  sympatliy  in  all  our  troubles 
and  pleasures  was  truly  appreciated — and  when  he 
passed  away,  and  the  i)lace  knew  him  no  more,  a 
great  shadow  fell  upon  that  house. 

Kate  Teiuiy. 


^nit]c 


INDEX. 


[All  letters  not  especinUy  addressed  to  others  were  written  to  Mrs. 
Brookjicld,  or  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brookjield  jointly'^. 


AiNSWORTU,  W.  H.,  106. 

Alexis,  the  somuambulist,  08,  09. 

Alresford,  the  magistrate's  ses- 
sions at,  201. 

Ancelot,  Mme.,  19((. 

Arlincoiirt,  Vicomte  d',  149. 

Ashburton,  Lord,  201. 

Ashburton,  Lady,  42, 71,  81, 123, 
202,  205. 

Baltimoke,  Thackeray  at,  214. 
Beauvoir,  Roger  de,  111. 
Bedford,  the  Dowager  Duchess 

of,  64. 
Bellows,  Rev.  Henry  W.,  205. 
Benedict,  Sir  Julius,  72  ?t. 
Berue,  Thackeray  at,  191. 
Berry,  the  Misses,  5,  81, 125, 132, 

230. 
Blenheim,  Thackeray  at,  35. 
Bonneval,  Mme.  de,  190. 
Bracebridge,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  24. 
Brandauer,  Miss,  27. 
Brighton,  Thackeray  at,  74. 
Brohan,  Mile.,  97. 
Brookfield,  Rev.  William  Henry 

(often  referred  to  in  the  letters 


by  various  names,  as  "Mr. 
Williams,"  "the  Inspector," 
etc. ),  7  n.,  20,  28,  30,  37,  42,  44, 
51,  53,  .59,  01,  73  et  seq.,  81,  93, 
107,  108,  110,  117,  128,  136, 
149,  153,  1.54,  164;  letters  to, 
3,  4,  7,  24,  30,  32,  35,  02,  65, 
70,  71,  84,  109,  177, 178,  203. 

Brougham,  Lord,  125. 

Brussels,  Thackeray  at,  8  et  seq. 

Budd,  Captain,  56. 

Bullar,  Joseph,  25,  40,  113. 

Bullar,  William,  181. 

Buller,  Charles,  death  of,  33. 

Butler,  Pierce,  212, 

Byng,  Mr.,  199. 

Canterblrt,  Thackeray  at,  9. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  39,  152,  203. 

Castlereagh,  Lord  and  Lady,  130, 
130,  148,  161. 

Chapman,  Mr.,  8. 

Chaeles,  Mr.,  93. 

Chrouide,  ?7ie,  Thackeray's  con- 
tributions to,  34. 

Clevedon  Court,  5  m.,  32  n.,  34. 

Colemache,  Mme.,  196. 


240 


3n^e;r. 


Cowpor,  Spencci',  C>7. 
Crampton,  Mr.,  British  Minis- 
ter at  Washington,  215. 
Crowe,  Eyre,  70  7i. 
Crowe,  Mr.,  4,  212. 
Crowe,  Mrs.,  70  n.,  83. 

Damer,  Colonel,  1.32. 

"  David  Copperfield,"  65,  110. 

Davy,  Lady,  56,  63. 

De  Bathe,  Sir  Henry  and  Lady, 
73. 

Dejazet,  Mile.,  13. 

Dickens,  Charles,  "Reconcilia- 
tion banquet"  given  to  him 
and  Thackeray  by  Forster,  3 ; 
Letter  of  A.  H.  concerning, 
with  Thackeray's  comments, 
C ;  Thackeray  on,  82. 

Dilke,  Charles  Wentworth,  33. 

Dover,  Thackeray  at,  10,  43. 

Doyle,  Richard,  175. 

Elgin,  Lady,  198. 

Ellice,  Mr.,  135. 

Elliot,  Frederick,  185. 

Elliot,  Mrs.,  130, 167, 185;  letters 

to,  218  tt  x<q.,  220. 
Elliot,  Miss  Hatty,  133. 
EUiotson,  Dr.,  88,  131. 
Elton,  Sir  Charles,  5  «.,  32  n. 
Elton,  Sir  Edmund,  32  m. 
Errington,  Mrs.,  07. 
Eoeniny  Post,    The,  New  York, 

Extract  from,  on  Thackeray's 

lectures,  208. 
Everett,  Edward,  215. 
Exhibition  of  1851, 175. 

Pakrer,  Miss,  202. 
Fanshawe,  Mrs.,  59,  96. 


Fielding's  Novels,  Thackeray 
on,  159. 

Fonblauquo,   Mr.,  80. 

Forster,  John,  His  "Reconcilia- 
tion banquet,"  3  ;  mention  of, 
8  and  n. 

Fraser,  Thomas,  97. 

Galignani's  Messenger, 
Thackeray's  contributions  to, 
42. 

Gigoux,  Mr. ,  137. 

Gordon,  Sir  Alexander  and  Lady 
Duff,  72. 

Granville,  Lady,  64. 

Gudin,  Theodore,  137. 

Gudin,  Mme.,  97,  148. 

Hallam,  Henry  Pitzmaurice, 
34,73,167;  death  of,  169. 

Hallam,  Miss,  84. 

Halliday.  Mr.,  90. 

Heidelberg,  Thackeray  at,  189. 

Herbert,  Mr.s.,  163. 

Higgins,  Matthew  James  (Jacob 
Omnium),  81  n. 

Hislop,  Lady,  133. 

Holland,  Lord,  172. 

Hotel  des  Pays  Bas,  Spa,  16  et  scq. 

Howden,  Lord,  133. 

Jacobs,  the  Wizard,  9. 
"  Jane  Eyre,"  its  authorship  at- 
tributed to  Procter,  33. 
Janin,  Jules,  89  et  scq. 
Jones,  Longueville,  42. 

Kenvon,  Mr.,  108. 

Kinglake,    Alexander  William, 

132. 
Kingsley,  Charles,  189. 


3n^cr. 


241 


Lamartine,  Alphonse  de,  44. 
Lansdownc,  Lord,  153. 
Leslie,  the  Misses,  64. 
Lind,  Mme.  Jennie,  73,  155. 
Literary  Fund,  Tliackeray's  din- 
ner and  speech  at,  157  et  seq. 
Louvre,  the,  Thackeray  at,  94. 
Lovelace,  Lady,  57. 
Low,  Andrew,  320. 
Lucerne,  Thackeray  at,  194. 
Lytton,  SirBulwer,  163. 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington, 

114, 116  et  seq. 
Macdonald,  Norman,  38. 

Mackenzie,  Mrs.  Stewart,  188. 

Maine,  Henry,  154. 

Marrast,  Mr.,  44. 

Martchenko,  Mr.,  190. 

Meurice's  Hotel,  Paris,  Thack- 
eray at,  44. 

Mill,  John  Stuart,  133. 

Molesworth,  Sir  William  and 
Lady,  166. 

Montgomery,  Mrs.  Alfi-ed,  85. 

Morgan,  Captain,  64. 

Morier,  Mr.,  39,  76. 

Morley,  Lady,  153. 

"MystL-res  deLondres,"a  French 
play,  Thackeray's  description 
of,  48. 

Napier,  Sir  George,  116. 

New  York,  Thackeray  in,  205 ; 

imaginary  letter  from,  233. 
Normanby,  Lord,  47,  136. 

O'Brien,  Smith,  30. 
Orsay,  the  Coimt  d',  145. 
Osy,  Mme.,  97. 
Oxford,  Thackeray  at,  35. 
16 


Palmer,  Mr.,  76. 

Paris,  Thackeray  in,   44,   89  et 

seq.,  132  rt  seq.,  196  et  seq. 
Parr,  Mrs.  34,  87. 
Parr,  Thomas,  188. 
Pattle,  Miss  Virginia,  78  n.,  133, 

168. 
Payne,  Mrs.  Brookfield's  maid, 

S3,  25. 
Peacock,  Thomas  Love,  126. 
Peel,  Sir  Robert  and  Lady,  152. 
''Pendennis,"  31,  33,  51,  55,  58, 

59,  77,  78,  81,  90,  106,  123- 
Perry,  Miss  Kate,  66,  131 ;  her 
recollections    of    Thackeray, 
239 ;  letters  to,  318,  319. 
Perry,  William,  229. 
Philadelphia,  Thackeray  in,  210. 
Powell,  Mrs.,  8.5. 
Prinsep,    Mr.   and  Mrs.,  78  «., 

123. 
Procter,  Adelaide,  33,  57,  84. 
Procter,    Bryan   Waller   (Barry 

Cornwall),  54. 
Procter,  ]\Irs.,  31,  54  n.,  59,  66, 

165. 
PuncJi,  29;    Thackeray  resigns 
from,  225. 

Rothesay,  Lady  Stuart  de,  133. 
Rawlinson,  Major,  203. 
Rehda,  baths  of,  24. 
Richmond,  Thackeray  at,  218. 
Bobbins,  Mrs.,  87. 
Rothschild,  Baron,  44. 
Royal   Scots   Fusiliers,  Thack- 
eray's visit  to,  9. 
Ryde,  Thackeray  at,  66. 


Sandwich,  Lady,  136. 
Sartoris,  Mrs.,  74. 


242 


3n^er. 


Savannah.  Thackeray  at,  210. 

Scott,  General  Winfield,  217. 

Sterling,  A.,  71  n. 

Shell.  Richard,  80. 

Simeon,  Mr.,  173. 

Smith,  Horace,  76. 

Smith,  the  Misses,  76  7i,  78  n., 

88. 
Sortain,  Mr.,  39. 
Spa,  Thackeray  at,  15  et  seq. 
Spring  Rice,  Mr.,  177. 
Sutro,  Dr.,  34. 

Taylou,  Henry,  178,  203. 

Tennent,  Lady,  64. 

Thackeray,  WUliam  Makepeace, 
circumstances  of  his  corre- 
spondence with  Mr.  and  IVIrs. 
Brookfield,  vii.  et  seq.  ;  his 
visit  to  the  Royal  Scots  Fusi- 
liers in  garrison,  9 ;  his  hour 
in  Canterbury  Cathedral,  10- 
13;  journey  to  Brussels,  12; 
on  Becky  Sharp  and  others  of 
his  characters,  14 ;  journey  to 
Spa,  14  et  seq.  ;  on  Titmarsh's 
reception  at  the  Hotel  d'York, 
10  ;  in  the  play-house  at  Spa, 
18,  10  ;  his  notes  in  verse,  38, 
29  ;  comments  on  "  Penden- 
niB,"32;  writes  for  the  Chvon- 
ii-le,  34  ;  it  Oxford  and  Blen- 
heim, 35 ;  on  the  service  in 
Magdalen  Chapel,  37 ;  on 
Charles  BuUer's  death,  38 ;  on 
/"  blasphemous  asceticism," 
Y40;  at  Dover,  43  ;  in  Paris,  44; 
his  "  quarantine  of  family  din- 
ners," etc.,  45;  description  of 
a  French    play,   48;  .on    his 


work  and  money  affairs,  51, 
52 ;  on  Blanche  Amory  and 
Pendennis,  60  ;  at  the  Reform 
banquet,  64  j  on  "  David  Cop- 
perfield,"  65 ;  at  Spencer  Cow- 
per's  dinner,  67  ;  at  Brighton, 
74 ;  on  his  work  on  "  Penden- 
nis," 78,  79;  on  Dickens,  83; 
on  old  friendships,  85 ;  in  Pa- 
ris again,  89  ;  visits  Jules  Jan-  ^ 
in,  89 ;  on  his  artist  life  in 
Paris,  93 ;  on  a  rumor  of  his 
death,  102;  his  poem,  "A 
Failure,"  103 ;  his  fear  of  loss 
of  memory,  106 ;  in  a  French 
green-room.  111 ;  his  Christ- 
mas letter,  119 ;  on  his  work, 
123,  1 24 ;  on  a  ride  and  the 
characters  met  in  it,  138,  129 ; 
in  Paris  again,  132  ;  on  d'Or- 
say,  144 ;  at  a  French  ball, 
148;  at  Cambridge,  153;  his 
"smash"  at  the  Literary 
Fund,  157;  on  a  visit  to  an 
emigrant  ship,  1 63 ;  his  review 
of  Fielding  in  the  Tunes.,  164 ; 
on  handwritings,  169 ;  on  fun- 
erals, 169  ;  his  ode  for  the  Ex- 
hibition, 173  et  seq.  ;  on  the 
exhibition,  175  ;  on  mysti- 
cism, 181  ;  on  the  Rhine,  186  ; 
atWiesbaden,  187  ;  at  Heidel- 
berg, 183;  at  Berne,  192;  on 
his  fortieth  birthday,  191 ;  at 
Lucerne,  1 94 ;  in  Paris  again, 
196;  on  the  death  of  Mr. 
Brookfield's  father,  204 ;  in 
New  York,  205;  his  lectures 
there,  208 ;  in  Philadelphia, 
210 ;  in  Baltin;ore  and  Wash- 


3nbe;r. 


243 


ington,  214;  his  opinion  of 
American  cities,  214;  on  his 
lectures,  218;  at  Richmond, 
218 ;  at  Savannah,  219  ;  on  the 
Saturday  Review^ s  criticisms, 
220  :  his  imaginary  letter  from 
New  York,  223;  his  resigna- 
tion from  Ptcnch,  225;  anec- 
dotes of,  227  ct  scq. 

Thackeray,  Dr.,  155. 

Tidy,  ]\[rs.,  50. 

Trench,  Bichard  Chcncvix,  202. 


Turpin,  Mrs.  Brookfield's  maid, 
20,  118. 

"Vanity  Fair,"  the  Specta- 
tor's notice  of,  8,  33  ?^.,  230 
et  seq. 

Villiers,  Charles,  120,  132. 

Waldegrave,  Lady,  136. 
Washington,  Thackeray  at,  214. 
Whitmore,  Mrs.,  88. 
Wiesbaden,  Thackeray  at,  187. 
Wilmot,  Foley,  190. 


TROWS 

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